Digging through my cupboard, I wonder just what I want to bring along this time. Something complex, with different notes and exotic components? Or something basic? Yeah, I think something basic will do this time, let's go with a basic apple tea. So I grab a box of apple tea bags and throw it into my backpack alongside my on-the-go massage gear. Now I'm ready for the weekend. For the last few months, every Saturday evening, I head over to my friend Connor's place over on the other side of the apartment complex for a pot of tea and a massage, because he really needs it. He works in construction, with rough hours and tough work that leaves him beat by the end of the week, which is where I come in.
After taking along my backpack and making the short trip to his apartment, I knock on the door and am let in in short order. At this point, we've kind of got a routine going, and we've barely exchanged our usual greetings before I'm standing in the kitchen, running the kettle and preparing the teapot as well as two cups. By the time the water is hot and I've started letting the teabags steep in the pot, we start chatting about the past week, troubles we've had and such. And once the tea is done, we seamlessly transition to the living room with barely a hitch in the conversation, settling down on the couch and pouring ourselves the first cup of many for this evening. The talk flows from work to, well, different work, with the topic of Connor's side hustle of digital art coming up. I've never really gotten into the details of it all, only knowing that he's got a tablet that he draws stuff on, posts online, and offers commissions for money, but then again, I don't need to know more as long as he doesn't want to tell me, y'know?
And with the first teapot finished up after about an hour, it comes time for us to move on to the second part of our weekly get-togethers. Indeed, I barely have to say anything, we just share a silent nod, and I'm already on my way to a side room to pick up the home massage table I leave at his place just for convenience's sake, carrying it to the living room—not a lot of room elsewhere in this apartment—and set it up. Just as I finish setting it up, Connor comes out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and lays down on the table, letting me get to work. Every week, I give him an extensive massage to help with the wear and tear of the workweek. Since I am a masseuse by trade, it seemed a natural thing I could do to help my good friend. Now, we are usually silent during this. While we enjoy our conversations, Connor likes this part of the evening to be quiet and contemplative, and I can appreciate that as well.
However, this time, he breaks the silence. "Hey, Toby? You mind if I ask you something?" he asks as I work on his shoulders.
This catches me off guard a bit, but whatever, sure, he wants to talk today, that's fine. "Yeah, sure, go right ahead."
"Anybody ever ask you for a, um, 'happy ending' at work? Like, you get done massaging some guy and he makes a pass at you?" he then asks.
Where the hell is this coming from? "Uh, no. We actually have very strict rules about that sort of thing and really, really do not appreciate it. That's just kind of a stereotype, urban legend if you will, but it doesn't actually happen, and if it does, it's some drunk guy that gets tossed out and banned from the establishment," I explain. "Why do you ask?"
Silence falls over the room once more, and he seems to be contemplating something quite heavily as I continue to massage him. Finally, he seems to muster up the courage to spit out what he wants to say. "Well, uh... it might be easier to explain if you take a look at my tablet in my bedroom," he says, leaving me very confused. Nonetheless, I am curious, so I head over to the bedroom, leaving him there on the massage table, and spot his tablet on the desk in the mini-office sort of section of the bedroom. It's running some sort of drawing application, and there is currently something open. Specifically, several sketches, where he has drawn quite a few sets of abs, fit, muscled thighs... and dicks. About a dozen dicks.
When I return to the living room for some sort of explanation, Connor has gotten up from the massage table, still only clad in a towel wrapped around his waist. "So, um... you know I'm trying to make some extra cash drawing stuff for the Internet, right? Well, I figured if I'm just gonna draw sexy ladies, I'd be struggling to stand out; it's a big pond, y'know? So, why not make the pond smaller and get into drawing sexy dudes, that's what I thought. But while I'm getting the fundamentals down, I, uh, find myself struggling with what to draw, cuz, y'know, I'm not gay. And that means I don't know what gay guys like! So..." he trails off, sheepishly locking eyes with me for only a few seconds at a time before having to break it again, clearly embarrassed at the whole situation. But eventually, he manages to continue, "...I need inspiration, Toby."
"What do you mean, 'inspiration'?" is all I can ask in return.
"I don't know!" is his frustrated response. "I just need you to, I don't know... show me? Tell me? ...something!"
It's clear that this is weighing heavily on him, and he's got no idea how to handle it, so he's just asking me, the gay dude he knows, if he's got any. And this is going to be an odd situation any way you slice it. Do I tell him about what kind of gay porn I like, maybe show him examples? Do I tell him of what my type of guy looks like? Do I go whole hog and, I dunno, just make a move on him so he can feel what it's like to be gay or something? As I ponder this, I can practically feel the temperature in the room rising as an odd tension grows between us. "You... you want me to inspire you?" I ask, getting a bit closer to him.