Okay so first of all: it was not my fault.
It was my roommate Tyler’s fault. We have shared a cinderblock room in Brandt Hall for two years, and it was his fault for naming the group chat “Boys” with no further specification. It was supposed to be four of us — me, Tyler, Marcus, and our friend Devon — except Tyler added half of intramural soccer for one pickup game in September and never took anybody back out. It was supposed to be for group project stuff and memes and occasionally Devon sending pictures of his cat at 3 AM.
It was NOT supposed to be where I accidentally sent a picture.
A specific picture.
A picture that I had taken for one person only, with the intention of sending it to one person only, via private DM, like a normal functioning human being with impulse control.
But my thumb slipped. Or my phone lagged. Or the universe just looked at me that day and said “you know what this boy needs? Public humiliation.”
The picture went to “Boys.”
All eleven of us.
At 11:32 PM on a Tuesday.
The picture, for context, was of me. After practice. In the locker room. Wearing my soccer jersey (cropped, obviously), shorts, socks. And a towel. Just… slung. Around my neck. And nothing else below the jersey, because I had just come from practice and the locker room was empty and I was going to shower and —
Look. The picture was tasteful. It was not explicit. It showed midriff. It showed collarbones. It showed the suggestion of what lay beneath, which is honestly more powerful than showing anything directly, and I would argue this from a purely artistic standpoint.
But it was clearly not a “for the group chat” picture.
I knew this immediately.
Tyler knew this immediately.
Marcus knew this immediately.
Devon’s cat probably knew this immediately.
Here is the exact timeline of what happened next:
11:32 PM — I send the picture to “Boys.”
11:32 PM — I realize what I have done.
11:32 PM — I attempt to unsend it.
11:32 PM — Tyler has already seen it.
11:33 PM — I type: “wrong chat sorry”
11:33 PM — Tyler types: “WRONG CHAT????”
11:33 PM — Marcus types: “oh my god”
11:33 PM — Devon types: “oh my god” followed by three cat emojis
11:34 PM — I type: “it was for someone else”
11:34 PM — Tyler types: “FOR WHO”
11:34 PM — I type: “none of your business”
11:34 PM — Marcus types: “it was for me wasn’t it”
11:34 PM — I type: “NO”
11:34 PM — Marcus types: “it was for me”
11:35 PM — Tyler types: “bro he’s right it has his energy”
11:35 PM — I type: “IT WAS FOR DEVON”
11:35 PM — Devon types: “I have a cat”
11:35 PM — Tyler types: “bro Devon has a cat this doesn’t have cat energy”
11:36 PM — Marcus types: “it has MY energy”
11:36 PM — Tyler types: “okay but like… can I just say… you look really good”
11:36 PM — I type: “TYLER”
11:36 PM — Tyler types: “WHAT. I’M BEING SUPPORTIVE.”
11:37 PM — Marcus types: “I think we all need to acknowledge that we’re all looking at this picture very carefully right now”
11:37 PM — Devon types: “speaking for myself I have looked at it seventeen times”
11:37 PM — I type: “I hate all of you”
11:37 PM — Tyler types: “no you don’t”
11:38 PM — I type: “deleting this chat”
11:38 PM — Marcus types: “you can’t delete it for all of us”
11:38 PM — I type: “I hate you specifically”
11:38 PM — Marcus types: “I know. DM me?”
I threw my phone across the room.
It landed on my bed, which was lucky, because if it had hit the floor it would have shattered and then I wouldn’t have been able to see the notifications that started rolling in approximately four minutes later.
Because here’s the thing. After the group chat exploded — after Tyler made it weird, after Marcus made it weirder, after Devon sent a picture of his cat with the caption “he approves” — the group chat went quiet.
And then my DMs lit up.
Tyler: “hey so like… no pressure… but if you ever wanted to hang out. just us. that would be cool. no weirdness. unless you want weirdness. I’m cool with either.”
Marcus: “I meant what I said. DM me? Or don’t. I’ll survive. (I won’t.)”
Devon: “my cat says hi. also I’m free thursday. just saying.”
Some guy from my chem class who I did not know was in the group chat until that exact second: “hey I’m Jake from chem, I know this is random but… you’re really pretty. coffee sometime?”
Another guy from the soccer team: “bro I’ve been wanting to say something for weeks. dinner?”
Tyler again: “please respond to at least one of us I’m dying here”
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.
My phone was face-down on my chest, vibrating every thirty seconds with a new notification, and I was having what I can only describe as the best worst moment of my life.
On one hand: I had accidentally sent a thirst trap to a group chat. In front of my friends. In front of a guy from chem. In front of a guy from soccer. In front of the entire male population of my social circle.
On the other hand: six guys had just privately DMed me asking to hang out.
Individually.
Privately.
Like they each thought they were the only one.
Like they each thought they had a chance.
Which — spoiler — they all did. Because I am not picky. I am generous. I am a public service.
I picked up my phone.
I opened the group chat.
I typed: “so… who’s first?”
The typing indicators all lit up at once.
Dots everywhere. Dancing. Like they were excited.
I put the phone down again.
I was going to let them wait. Just long enough for them to know that I was the one in control here, the one who got to decide, the one who was the prize and not the embarrassment.
The picture wasn’t a mistake.
The chat was a mistake.
The picture was a statement.
And the statement was: I’m available. I’m interested. And I have excellent taste in socks.
I waited exactly seven minutes.
Then I DM’d Marcus first, because he’d asked the most confidently and I respect confidence.
Then Tyler, because he was my roommate and it would be weird not to.
Then Devon, because his cat is cute and I’m not a monster.
Then Jake from chem, because he asked nicely.
Then soccer guy, because he had nice shoulders.
And then I went to sleep.
And in the morning, I had six new messages waiting for me, all from guys who had spent the night thinking about me, all from guys who were now going to be very attentive in the days to come.
Tyler left a coffee on my desk.
Marcus texted me “good morning :)” at 7 AM, which is insane because Marcus doesn’t wake up until noon on a good day.
Devon sent another cat picture.
Jake from chem asked if I wanted to study together.
Soccer guy said “practice was terrible today I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
I read every single one of them while eating my cereal in my underwear.
It was a good morning.
Tyler’s been quiet since Thursday.
Tyler is never quiet. Tyler is the guy who narrates his own meals. The guy who sends voice notes about the weather. The guy who texts “yo” followed by seventeen more messages explaining why he said yo.
But it’s been 48 hours. And his last message in the group chat was “please respond to at least one of us I’m dying here.”
That’s it. That’s the last thing my roommate has said to me in two days.
He’s in his bed right now. Screen dark. Not on his phone. Just… looking at the ceiling. The way Marcus looks at ceilings. The way guys look at ceilings when something inside them is rearranging.
“Tyler.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is different. Quieter.
“Which one did you pick.”
I look at him. He’s not looking at me. He’s still staring at the ceiling.
“What.”
“Which one of them. Jake from chem. Soccer guy. Devon. Marcus. Me.” His voice is flat. Careful. “Which one did you pick.”
Oh.
Tyler isn’t quiet because he’s mad. Tyler is quiet because he’s waiting. Tyler is quiet because for the first time in his life, he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
I open my mouth.
My phone buzzes. A text. From Devon: “can i come over.”
From Jake: “coffee tomorrow?”
From soccer guy: “practice was terrible again i cant stop thinking about you.”
From Marcus: “hey :)”
From Tyler, sitting ten feet away from me: nothing.
I look at Tyler. He’s still looking at the ceiling.
I put my phone face down on the desk. It keeps buzzing. I let it.
“You,” I say.
Tyler finally looks at me.
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that if it’s, like, a pity thing. I’ll be fine. I’ll be extremely normal about it.”
“Tyler. The picture was for you.”
He sits up so fast he hits his head on the bunk light.
“It was not.”
“I said Devon because Devon has a cat and nobody would believe it. It was for you. I had your DM open. My thumb slipped one row up.”
“One row up,” he repeats.
“Boys is right above you. Because you text me forty times a day.”
He just stares at me. Then he says, very quietly, “I looked at it seventeen times too. Devon wasn’t the only one. I just didn’t say it in the chat because I’m a coward.”
So I get up and cross the room. It’s eight feet. I’ve crossed it a thousand times to steal his chargers. I climb onto his bed and sit on his thighs, and he puts his hands on my waist like he isn’t sure they’re allowed there.
“Is this okay?” he says.
“I got in your bed, Tyler.”
“I know, I’m just checking, I’m—” He swallows. “I’ve never done this with a guy.”
“I know. Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop. I want to narrate it. Is that weird. I feel like I need to narrate it.”
“You narrate your cereal.”
“That’s different, cereal is—”
I kiss him. It shuts him up for almost four seconds.
Then he’s talking against my mouth. Okay. Okay. You’re in my lap. You’re in my lap and you’re hard, I can feel it, oh my god. I pull my shirt off over my head and he says oh my god again like it’s a whole sentence. He puts his mouth on my collarbone, the exact spot from the picture, and I realize he really did look at it seventeen times, because he knows exactly where to go.
I get his sweats down. He is very, very hard and very, very embarrassed about how fast it happened. I wrap my hand around him and he goes quiet for once, just breathing, eyes squeezed shut.
“Talk,” I tell him. “I like it.”
“You— your hand is— that’s so much better than mine. That’s not fair. That’s actually not fair.”
I lean over to my side of the room, which in a dorm is one arm’s length, and get the lube out of my nightstand. Tyler watches me do it.
“You have that just in your nightstand?”
“You’ve lived with me for two years. Where did you think it was?”
“I didn’t think about it,” he says. “I thought about it constantly. Both.”
I get myself ready while he watches, which makes him say a string of words I won’t write down. Then I sit back and take him slow, an inch at a time, my hands flat on his chest, and Tyler, the loudest man in Brandt Hall, the guy who sends voice memos about the weather, completely loses the ability to speak.
He just holds onto my hips and stares up at me with his mouth open.
“Narrate,” I say. I’m breathless. I’m laughing.
“You’re—” His voice cracks. “You’re riding me. You’re riding me in my bed and you sent me a picture and I— fuck, you feel— I’m gonna last nine seconds, I’m so sorry—”
He lasts a lot longer than nine seconds. He gets his hand around me without being told and works me in time with every drop of my hips, and when I come it’s all over his stomach and his old orientation T-shirt, and he says oh, wow, like he’s watching fireworks. “Good boy,” I tell him, and he makes a sound like I’ve hit him. He comes a minute later with his face pressed into my neck, saying my name over and over like he’s trying to make up for two quiet days all at once.
My phone has been buzzing on the floor the whole time.
Afterward, Tyler reaches down, grabs it, and hands it to me. Fourteen notifications. He watches me open the group chat.
I type: sorry boys. it was for tyler. it was always for tyler.
Tyler reads it over my shoulder and makes a sound like a balloon deflating.
Marcus: KNEW IT
Soccer guy: respect
Jake from chem: still down for studying
Devon sends a picture of his cat. Caption: he approves.
Tyler takes my phone out of my hand, puts it on the windowsill, and pulls me back down.
“Okay,” he says into my hair. “Narrating. You’re in my bed. You’re staying in my bed.”
I am, in fact, staying in his bed. My thighs are sore in a way that makes the walk to the communal bathroom in the morning a genuine project, and there is a bruise on my collarbone exactly where he put his mouth, and I am sticky in at least three places I am not going to enumerate, and I do not cover any of it.
Caption: “My thumb slipped. Six guys didn’t. One guy got the picture anyway.”
