One more light, a couple right turns, and then I can finally get out of this fucking suit.

It's tailored to fit--my dad made sure of that. Can't have his only kid looking like he picked out the first suit he saw on the Goodwill racks, which is probably what I'd do if left to my own devices, because this thing feels way too tight on my chest and shoulders. Feels like I'm stuck in a straightjacket or one of those old iron maidens, and I can't wait to tear the thing off and throw it onto my floordrobe. At least until I get annoyed at myself for being a slob and pick it up like a civilized person.

I flick on my turn signal and make the last turn into my apartment complex. The closest parking space is two buildings away, but I pull in and book it to my second floor apartment, fishing out my keys as I climb the stairs. A few seconds later and I'm struggling out of the suit jacket like I've never worn clothes in my life. The tie comes off next, then the dress shirt and shoes, until I'm standing there in slacks and an undershirt.

"Good enough," I mutter, looking at the carnage of suit pieces laid bare at my feet.

Grabbing a water and an apple out of the fridge, I head to my desk and turn on my computer. While it boots, I pull out my phone and glance at the time, trying to calm the sudden spike of anxiety as I realize just how late it is. Just past seven, and the world boss my guild and I are supposed to take on for qualifying points spawns at eight. On paper it sounds like plenty of time, and it would be if I'd taken care of all my prep shit.

But there are potions to buy, armor to fix, and a whole host of other things I need to do before go-time, with barely any breathing room to do it. The shitty thing is, I made plenty of time for it. I'd planned to have dinner cooked and eaten by six so I had two leisurely hours to prepare, but Dad had other plans. Today he brought me into the office to sit through what seemed like a million boring meetings where a bunch of guys his age and older just talked over each other for an hour straight.

My dad loves that shit, because it gives him an excuse to assert his dominance over all the other suit-wearing narcissists. Meanwhile I'm sitting there wondering how a group of fifty- and sixty-year-old men can manage to sound just like the idiots I raid with. Apparently my future's going to be a lot like my present. Or at least my family plans for it to be that way.

From an early age, I was groomed to take over Winthrop Industries, my dad's ad agency. As a kid, I hoped I'd grow into a love of advertising, but that never happened, nor did I ever gain an affinity for the kind of bureaucratic mindset it takes to work in the environment my dad has cultivated for the past twenty-seven years. Now that I'm done with college, my dad wants me working as an intern full-time, sitting in on his important meetings and learning everything I need to know to replace him when he finally decides to retire.

But I have something else in mind.

As soon as my computer boots, I load up my filming equipment and get Twitch pulled up. I reach behind me to turn on the two studio lights, check to make sure my green screen is free of debris, and check myself out in my phone's camera. I look tired--and I fucking feel it--but other than that, I'll be able to give the people what they want. Beard game's on point. Baby blues and a lopsided grin are ready to go. I should probably change, since all the camera can see right now is a skin-tight, sleeveless white shirt, but whatever. It'll increase the viewer count, and I'm not opposed to whoring out my muscles for ad revenue.

I load Discord and the game launcher for Estalia Online, then pull up a browser on my second monitor and search out the Cyclones' social media. They aren't live on Twitch yet, but there's a tweet from a few hours ago that catches my attention:

I snort softly to myself. Not like them going after the world boss was much of a secret. Wherever there are points to be earned, the Cyclones are there. Even once they've gotten enough points to qualify, those assholes still show up to events like this. It's expected by the developers and the community at this point, but today they're going to be in for a nasty surprise.

My guild, Victoria Aut Mors, has shown up to every single qualifying event this season, and we're not about to miss this one. I know the Cyclones expect us, but here's what they don't expect: I plan to do everything in my power to get us full points tonight; to take the kill and the glory right out from under them the second their guard is down. And that starts with their captain, Finn McLaughlin.

Even as I navigate to his YouTube page, my heart starts to race. Just the thumbnail of his latest video with those soulful eyes and those soft, plump lips makes my dick twitch in my pants. Finn is one of the most vocal "gaymers" on the scene right now, and the thought of being locked in a room with him at some con or other event is my go-to fantasy whenever I take some personal time to cool the lust he inspires in me.

The guy is fucking hot, and I'm not sure he really knows it. Maybe he thinks the rust-red hair and the dusting of freckles on his face make him look more cute than sexy, but god damn, he does it for me on every level. Every time I watch his videos, I end up thinking about having those beautiful, delicate lips wrapped around my cock. Or that thick, muscular ass pushing back on me as I fuck him up against the nearest wall.

God. Damn. I'm getting hard already, and I have to squeeze my dick through my slacks just to get some relief. If I'd been home earlier, I could've taken care of it then. Instead I'm going to be stuck with it until I can focus on the raid. For now I indulge, hitting play on his video while everything else loads. He's sitting in his computer chair right in front of his bed, looking all bright-eyed and happy to be there.

"Hey, guys," he greets, his voice smooth and rich, but not too deep. "This'll just be a quickie because we've got a world boss in a few hours, but I wanted to do a Q&A while I had the chance, before I start getting too much of a backlog of questions. As always you guys can reach me here on YouTube, or DM me your questions on Twitter at GaymerFinn."

I lean back in my chair, my hand still shamelessly resting on my dick as I watch, glancing to the other monitors to make sure I haven't fully loaded into the game yet. Most of the questions Finn answers are about gaming, and while he takes it in stride and answers them all with enthusiasm, I can tell that's not what he wants to be talking about on his channel. He probably wouldn't call himself an activist, but the Gaymer Finn identity he's built is front and center when it comes to the discussion of gaming culture and how it intersects with queer gamers.

He's got way more of a spotlight on him than I'd ever want, but he uses his platform for good. Guy's a fucking saint, and I'm over here trying to keep myself from stroking one out while his voice filters through my headset. I know once I meet him he'll be way too Boy Scout for me, but I'm okay admiring him from afar for right now.

"Okay, one last question. This one's from ZachBraff’sThirdCousin, and they ask: 'Do you have a boyfriend right now? And if not, do you want to--'" He trips over his own hesitation and his cheeks flush scarlet. "Ah, yeah, I won't be reading the rest of that."

His laugh betrays his nerves, and I'm equal part amused and livid that somebody would proposition him on his own channel. Amused because it's the sort of shit I would do, and livid because the thought of some random creep doing the same thing I'm doing right now really gets to me. Yeah, I'm a massive hypocrite, but at least I know it.

Seeing Discord’s loaded, I pause the video for a second and get into voice chat. I'm the only one there right now, but that's not unusual. The rest of the guys I play with are notoriously bad at waiting 'til the last second to do anything. After logging in my character--a big, burly half-giant--I unpause the video.

"So to answer your question: No, I don't have a boyfriend right now. I'm also not really looking. To be totally honest, I just don't have the time I feel is necessary to devote to a relationship. It wouldn't be fair to my partner. Since I don't see that changing any time soon, I mostly only pursue casual encounters when there's time. And no, I'm not holding auditions."

Casual encounters is code for Grindr, in my book. Maybe Craigslist if he's feeling extra spicy. I can just imagine getting that message to meet up and pulling into a motel off the interstate or a parking lot or something. It's sleazy, yeah, and Finn probably does the whole formality of dinner or something beforehand, but if I lived in Orlando with him, I'd probably troll Grindr at all hours--just in case.

Before I can dwell on what a fucking perv I am, I hear an obnoxious voice drowning out Finn's in my ears. "What up, homie?"

It's a phrase nobody's seriously uttered since the ‘90s--especially not seventeen-year-old white boys--but Josh thinks it's hilarious and has made it his signature greeting.

"Not much," I say, closing the tab with Finn's video like Josh can see it. "Just got home. About to prep for the raid."

"Oh, shiiiit. That tonight?" There's a long pause during which he probably expects me to freak out. Instead I just sit there and stew in annoyance, knowing what's coming. "Nah, man, I'm just fucking with you. Figured you’d be on way earlier though."

"Yeah, I wanted to be. But you know."

Josh's going to think what he wants to think, so I don't bother telling him I was trying to pretend like I'm a halfway decent son. None of these guys care about me as a person; they don't care about my life and what I go through. All they care about is that I show up and help them get their points. It's kind of a miserable system, but it's worked so far.

"Oh, I feel you, dude, I feel you." I roll my eyes so hard I can feel the strain of it. The day Josh talks like a normal person is the day Ragnarök will begin. "She let you hit it from the back, or what?"

Fucking Christ.

Before I can say anything to refute that, another guy, Calvin, logs on just in time to catch the very end of Josh's brilliant deduction. They start bantering back and forth about how much pussy I'm apparently getting, and two more of my guildmates eventually join in. I don't even need to be there, but I throw in a couple crass comments here and there. It's just the language they use, and I know if they look at me as some kind of hetero sex god, they'll actually listen to me come raid time.

"Anybody got an eye on the Cyclones?" Bryson--the only other person who seems to take this shit seriously--asks as I open up my inventory and take stock of what I need.

"Yeah, hold on. This just got uploaded."

I tab back to the Cyclones' Twitch stream. They still aren't live, so I know whatever's coming is going to be something stupid. Sure enough, the link is to a Pornhub video. Unable to deny my curiosity, I click on it and it’s a video of some random, vanilla-ass gangbang he probably pulled right off the front page. The other guys are either laughing or screeching into their mics about not wanting to see that "faggy shit," and my tolerance level just drops down to the fucking floor.

"Hey, chucklefucks. While you're over there playing with your dicks, the Cyclones are getting ready to take this kill from us. Get your shit together and focus."

That quiets them down. While I don't know that any of them really respect me, they know they need me. And--unfortunately--I need them. Firing up all my filming equipment and marking myself as live on Twitch, I get ready to herd these cats toward victory, trying to ignore the fact that I'm going to have to go through Finn to do it.