Page 1 of Under Your Care

Chapter 1

Lane

Three years ago - 18 years old

I was broken.

Or, at least, that’s what it felt like right now as I sat in a filthy dorm room, staring down at my perpetually limp dick.

Why did I even try anymore? Why had I thought that maybe - just maybe - this time would have been different? That maybe I’d feel anything besides gross indifference. That maybe this time, out of all the times I’d hoped for the exact same thing, would be something special. That maybe I’d feel normal for once. But no, of course not, and that is why I was currently sitting on a filthy comforter on a tiny, twin-size bed, in some random dorm room.

Once again, I wasn’t aroused in the slightest; no matter what my partner tried. I was so fuckingtiredof it. I desperately wished that I could have justonenormal orgasm with someone. At this point, my childish hope that I could have anything but these quick, unsatisfying, over-the-clothes groping sessions was long gone. I had grown to understand that I was just meant to be alone. I understood that no one would want someone as defective as I was. The reason why I was currently enduring a sloppy makeout session was because I had foolishly hoped that if I just had enough guys touch me, I’d at least react to one. My self-prescribed exposure therapy wasn’t helping.I gently tugged the jock’s tight curls to lift his head off my chest, already dreading having to tell him he wasn’t getting in my pants tonight.

“Hey man, you good?”

I appreciated that the guy had actually been really respectful during my brief stay. He had made sure we were on the same page about this being a meetup for sex, complimented my body when I took my clothes off, and asked for consent to kiss me. He’d done everything right, it was just my body that was wrong.

“Hey, yeah, I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can keep going. I’m really sorry–”

My hookup shook his head, eyebrows furrowed, as he interrupted me, “Dude, you don’t need to apologize. If you’re not feeling it, I don’t want to continue. I’m sorry if I was too pushy or over excited. I’m really new into being gay. Well, uh– that’s not the way to put it… New to fucking guys? Anyways, it’s alright, you don’t need to apologize or explain anything. We’re all good.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, wringing my hands together. “It’s not you, I promise. You’re fucking gorgeous and muscley andperfect. I just have some problems I’m dealing with, I guess.”

Since he seemed fine with the prospect of not getting his rocks off, I hopped off his bed to start fumbling around the dimly-lit room for where I had left my clothes. I was so fucking glad this guy understood. There had been several guys before him that’d yelled at me,accused me of leading them on, threatened me. All because I couldn’t get hard.

This guy was a breath of fresh air in my failed hookup roster. I was experiencing a depressing amount of self-deprecating thoughts, but it made it so much easier to have someone respect my withdrawal of consent like that.

He waved goodbye as I opened the door and left him blue-balled. It was times like these that hurt. Knowing that I could have had sex with that nice, respectful, hot-as-fuck man, but I ruined it with my stupid broken body.

The drive home from the dorms to my apartment on the other side of the city was quiet. I didn’t bother turning on the radio. I stared blankly at the road ahead as I thought about why I even bothered trying anymore. Yes; I was still young, a brand-new adult, possible decades of my life ahead of me, but I wasn’t sure it was worth it if I had to do it feeling like this. Like I was worthless, useless - any and all synonyms of those words. I blinked my eyes a few times after noticing the road was starting to get blurry. A few tears slid down my cheeks and plopped down on my lap. I sucked in a sob, refusing to allow anything more than a few silent tears to escape.

After reaching home, I quickly parked and climbed the stairs up to my apartment. Once inside, I slumped down into the mountain of pillows and fluffy blankets on my bed, carefully ensuring I didn’t accidentally sit on my cat. After burrowing into the pile of softness, I picked up my phone to report yet another failed hookup.

My best friend and only friend, Oliver, answered within the first two rings. “How’d it go? Considering you’re calling me before ten, I’m guessing you didn’t get dicked down?”

I rolled my eyes and sighed as I said, “No, Oliver, I did not getdicked down. I think I have erectile dysfunction or something. This was the fifteenth guy.”

Oliver hummed, “Well, have you considered that you may be asexual?”

“I know I’m not, Ollie. It’s fine when I’m alone and reading smut,” I paused, scrubbed my hand down my face, and groaned at the thought that came to mind. “You don’t think I could only be sexually attracted to book men, right?”

“I don’t know, but maybe you should just take a break for now? Maybe the right guy will randomly walk into your life one day and you’ll magically be cured from soft-dick-itis.”

Low blow with that one, but I deserved it. I said goodbye, told him I’d think about it, and hung up. A white knit blanket to my left suddenly startedmoving. I patiently waited until my sweet angel’s fuzzy face poked out. My parents had given me Chloe before I moved out for school. She lazily crawled out from the blanket, stretched, and ambled onto my chest. I looked into her big, beautiful blue eyes, and considered my conversation with Oliver. The more I pondered, the more I knew he was right. God, I hated it when he was right about something.

I knew why I was like this - a limp-dicked sack of sadness - but I just really didn’t want to admit it. To Oliver, or to anyone. That would’ve made it real. And if it was real, then that meanthehad won. And as I sat there, staring at the soft glow of the string lights above my bed - feeling the bone-deep loneliness and depression that always followed a failed hookup; I wondered if staying miserable was letting him win anyways. I’m sure he’d been pleased to learn that I was still suffering so many years later. I knew he’d smile, perfect teeth sparkling, and tell me that no one wanted a “used-up whore,” as he called me. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed my phone and called Oliver a second time.

Before he could say anything, I rushed to say, “Can we go out tonight? Just something fun?” Hearing his whooping over the speaker, I huffed out a small laugh and continued, “Pick me up in twenty minutes?”

After showering and forcing myself to smile in the mirror to make sure I looked happy, I put some lip gloss on, ruffled my hair for some volume, and made myself walk out the front door. As I was walking down my apartment building’s stairwell, I pictured myself wearing an outfit like the one I had on for a cute date one day. Sure, I highly doubted that I could ever be in a relationship, but I had dreamt of my future husband ever since I could remember. I didn’t really have a specific type. I wasn’t picky; I couldn’t afford to be. All I really wanted was someone to love me. Someone strong, caring, and protective. I wanted to feel safe with someone. Someone who could prove to me that I was not destined to be forever alone. To prove to me that it’s possible for someone to love me. To prove that I’m not broken beyond repair.My hopes were getting bleaker by the day, but I tried my best to still put myself out there, no matter how miserable it would make me. I’d do anything for someone who could understand the tangled mess of neurons that was my brain and love me all the same.

Chapter 2

Lane

Present day - 21 years old

I was spending another night alone - not that I was surprised. It was more often than not these days. I chose to be alone, because being alone was safer. I told myself every day that I didn’t need anyone, reminding myself not to get too close. But it was these kinds of nights: the nights that I craved someone else’s warmth, their smiles and playful jabs, my head on their shoulder - that broke my heart. Sure, I didn’t really care about having a big group of friends or anything, but I craved having a boyfriend. I desperately wanted the comfort that comes from fingers lovingly brushing through hair, the weight of a hug drowning out my sorrows, the intensity and heat rewriting memories. I just wanted to be loved. To be needed.

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