WALKING DISASTER

                                  DOMINIC WHITMOORE

“You need to get laid.”

I glare at my best friend and raise the knife in my grip to eye level. He isn’t the least bit deterred. If anything, he rolls his eyes at me.

“And you need to stay away from my kitchen.” I drag the tip of the knife over to the door, showing him where he could go.

“I’m serious, it’s been what? Three months? That’s not a dry spell. That’s a death sentence.” he shudders, the look of horror in his eyes cannot be fake because Cameron, my best friend doesn’t believe in celibacy.

The knife I’m holding slices right through the fish in front of me, and even as the sharp tip sinks into the fleshy delight, it doesn’t give me the sense of calm I’ve come to expect from doing this.

This time, the spring curled tightly at the base of my spine curls even tighter.

“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.” I grit out as the knife pushes through the flesh. The cut i make is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

With a slew of cuss words, I pull the knife out, letting it fall from my grip. It’s not my knife. Not my first choice even when I don’t have any other options. The counter is a mess, an array of used and discarded knifes, including my personal favorite. The fact that, that didn’t give me the cut I need is a betrayal I’ve never known.

“Dominic Benson Whitmoore, how do I put this so you understand?” he puts his hands under his chin, looking thoughtful.

“It’s Benson today?” I sigh, peeling off my gloves. Maybe today’s not my day. It’s not the day for it.

I’ve been waiting for an inspiration for November 4^th’s signature dish. So far so good, all I’ve got is a best friend I want to throttle, a lot of wasted fish and a need for a new carving knife.

“You get your best ideas after you’ve had your dick sucked, a poor guy’s throat and ass ruined.” he says with extra enthusiasm.

I lob the fish gloves at him, he dodges it skillfully. He plays defense in the Knight’s Hockey team and while they appreciate his skill, I do not.

“Gabe moved.” I tell him honestly as I check on the equipment and turn them off so I can turn in for the night. Cameron, undeterred, follows behind me.

“Wow, I had no idea we’re suffering a shortage of holes in Newcastle.”

I shake my head at him. Cameron has no shortage of holes. He has no idea the amount of training that goes into molding my perfect hole. I don’t accept anything less than perfect.

And Gabe had been close.

“Lucky for you, there isn’t a shortage. You can go to sleep happy.” I tell him, walking into my office to change into normal clothes.

“You had that app, right? The one you found Gabe and the ones who’d come before him?”

I don’t have to think about the app. We’d downloaded it together, and he’s gone through approximately a hundred and sixteen matches. His brag sheet is as long as anyone can imagine.

“What about it?”

“I’m talking to this guy, Ethan. He comes into town in a few days. I plan to have a blast.” he flashes the grin that has taken off so many pants.

I sigh as I peel my shirt off my back. My mind is a cluster fuck of so many things. The second anniversary of November 4^th

is coming up. And to celebrate that, I’m planning on making a signature dish. We’ve already sent out invites, people that matter, people that will know my food for the first time will walk through those doors expecting excellence.

I’ve never under delivered and I don’t plan on starting now.

“You’re clearly stressed. You need the relief.”

“There’s not enough time to train him to be what I want. You know how–”

“Peculiar. Perfectionist.” he completes with an eye roll. I shake my head at him. Him and my mother have their fun with calling me a perfectionist. It’s not a crime to want things in a certain way and making sure they stay that way.

“Give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll be a bad lay and you’ll move on.”

As I climb into my car, and he climbs into his. I can’t help but think he’s right. I can’t even remember the last time I tugged one out.

When I get to red light, I pull my phone out, my head against the head rest, my thumb hovers over the screen as RECIPE FOR DISASTER loads. I’m familiar with the app. Every gay guy into the kind of shit I’m into has the app on their phone.

The first profile I see is of a guy with his profile picture set to his cock. It’s small and red. His preferences read; Into name calling. Call me small peepee, I love it.

Nope.

I swipe away from his profile instantly. I’ll never kink shame anyone, but I know it’s not what I want.

I rub between my brows, smoothing out the headache that started to form there. Useless. I swipe through a few profiles, reminding myself why I don’t use this app as much as Cameron.

As the light turns green, I hit a profile without a profile picture, usually I’d swipe away since I'm a visual guy. But his preferences snatch my attention.

“Open minded. Willing to try almost anything.”

That gets me to sit up. Willing to try anything? Willing? That’s exactly what I’ve been searching for. There’s a tag above his name that tells me he’s new to the app.

His experience makes it all even better.

“Very little, but eager to learn.”

My eyes stray to his name.

“Well, well, well, nice to meet you, WalkingDisaster.” I murmur.  

The car behind me honks furiously, dragging my attention back to the road. I kick the car into traffic, my foot pressing the pedal a little harder than usual.

My eyes keep straying towards the phone sitting in the passenger seat. There’s something about that profile.

No picture. Barely any experience. Willing to try almost anything. Most people on the app know exactly what they want. They advertise it loudly, sometimes with far more confidence than they actually possess.

But this guy sounds like he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

 If this was how the siren calls sounded, I do not blame any single sailor lost to the choppy waves.

I pick up my phone at the next red light and open his profile again.

WalkingDisaster.

I smile.

I’ve just found my very first perfect sub. One I cannot wait to break into.