Since he has been staring at me for like... three minutes, I suppose he is expecting me to say something. What can I say in this situation? Should I reveal myself and make this more awkward than it is? And even if I do, I'm not sure I want to. I'm not sure I deserve to.

There he stands, the first person to not judge me for who I was, for who I was born to be, but for what I can become. He did not push me, nor condemned me, and gave me nothing but love, and the occasional diarrhea, but maybe that's my gut rejecting anything that doesn't strictly adhere to my diet of Four Loko and gas-store beef jerky.

He gave me his dream, to be a part of it, and what did I do? Jeopardize it with my antics just because some dumb fuck wanted to step on my territory.

Tell me, dear hypothetical reader, if my first instinct in the face of even a mild adversity is to burn everything into the ground, what would I do if I fight with him? Will I throw away our relationship over petty squabbles? History seems to be on the side of yes. I can't have that. To break his heart like that, when a side of me that I swore I wouldn't let out came barreling without notice, would kill me. He doesn't deserve that, and I don't deserve that.

I hope you can forgive me, dear hypothetical reader, but I won't forgive myself. I don't deserve this chance. For a man to have anything and throw it away like a week-old fridge chicken, there is no word other than... a dildo. I'm not even real enough to be a dick, just a sad facsimil.

"I'll take you silence as a yes," says Hayden, very patently pushing me on the back towards the bleachers. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, brother. You were kidnapped and made to shit yourself to survive a strange situation, and to be honest, I would also be a little reluctant to talk. Want a snickerdoodle?"

I shook my condom-hat left to right to say no. Snickerdoodles are for good noddles, and I've been a bad gnocchi.

"Suit yourself," he says, sitting on the bleachers. "Please, take a seat."

I shake the suit yet again, turning around and moving my tushie to say that, if I sit down, I'll have a huge cowpat. Yes, I did shit myself. Can't get too serious in this chapter.

"Right, sorry about that again," says Hayden. "Actually, follow me."

He stands up from the bleachers, making the last few lines worthless in the long run. Not having much to do this chapter but to listen and narrate, I follow him right into the locker room.

Lucky for me, there was no dick flopping in sight. Well, except for me, but I'm a dildo, at most. It's not a particularly big locker room, either, with a musky smell of mildew and hormones and some rusted lockers near the showers. Horrible design if you ask me.

Only the three beefy boys and a few straglers are milling around, shoving things into a duffle bag and doing other jock things, like eating raw pasta and listening to Limp Bizkit. I don't know what jocks do.

Hayden goes to his locker - which, I must add, smells faintly of vanilla and Paco Rabane - and takes out a trashbag. But no ordinary trashbag, but my trashbag! The one with all my underwear. Well, isn't this convenient?

"Here," he says, throwing me the bag. "Take your pick. I'm sure the owner wouldn't mind."

I must remind you all at this point that this suit doesn't have arms, so all that does is make me fall back hopelessly as the bag gets wet from the ever-moist floor that hasn't been bleached since Obama first took office. Of course, the condom also gets wet, and unlike the inside made of lamb-skin, the outside is made out of felt. Felt is like a soggy biscuit somebody left at the bottom of a Starbucks cup when it gets wet. So now this immaculate white condom suit is sullied with grass, mud, and now water. It needs to be on fire and I'll be the fucking Avatar. And if you're wondering, isn't there an element missing? To that I say that I broke wind in here, only with chunks of fish taco, so it counts.

"Whoops, sorry, brother," says Hayden, grabbing me with his huge yaoi-hands and glomping me to a standing position. "You can go to one of the bathroom stalls and change . We don't have much, uh, privacy here."

One of the random guys shoving random shit on a duffle bag pipes in with a big smile. "Bros who play together care together. We gotta see other bro's bodies to see if their bodies are alright. Skinship is caring!"

"Yeah!" yells Beefer. "Bros watch your back, and wash your back."

"Hell yeah, bro!" yells the first guy back. "Nothing like a good bro softly sponging your back after a good game to relax."

Not gonna ask, not gonna care. Let's just move on.

Hayden leads me to a bathroom stall that has a door - the only one to have a door, mind you - and plops the already wet bag on the floor. You know what happens when cotton gets wet? It expands like a soggy balloon, and just about as thin. Might as well use a wet-wipe to protect my giblets. I'll have to call my guy Underoos to hook me up with some new undies. Here's hoping it's water.

Once I'm sure the door is closed, I proceed to shimmy my pants down the mascot suit. So this is how girls feel when they need to pee with a dress on. Feels kind of odd, but strangely natural. I hope this doesn't start anything new in me.

"Yeah, so," says Hayden's voice out of nowhere, so intense and hard that it makes me jump back and bump my head against the door. See what I mean with bad boys getting bonked in the head all the time? "Whoops, sorry, did I startle you?"

I look around from left to right to see where he was, but I'm completely alone.

"Yeah, over here," says the voice again. "Just follow my voice."

Easier said than done in a small room with the acoustics of a soda can. I do however look down to see that there is a significant gap between the floor and the door, and a meaty hand protruding from it with a roll of toilet paper. Single ply, of course, thanks to Brayden's shady business practices. He keeps holding it until his brain makes the proper synapsis to realize I don't have arms I can use in this suit, so he leaves it on the floor, getting soggy. Thanks, I hate it.

"Don't worry, I won't peek," says Hayden. "And I won't let anybody else peek, right, Beefer?" followed by a loud smack.

"But how will we know if he has worms, bro?" says the -70 I.Q voice of Beefer.

"That's none of our business," says Hayden. "Now, can you leave us alone?"

"Just wanted to be helpful."

"You kidnapped him!"

"You don't have to rub it in, bro," Beefer sputters, hearing footsteps walk away from the stall. Good, I'm a shy pooper, and let me tell you that there's more where it came from.

I sit down on the toilet, pants off, dirty underwear on the waste bin, ready to rip a fat deuce, when a shaven head pops up from the top of the wide gap there is on top of the door. At this point, why make a door? I would have more privacy pissing in the middle of the football field. At least there people won't know if it's me from such a distance.

"Sorry, sorry," says Hayden, towering over me like a big tiddy goth gf about to step on me. I wonder why I have been obsessed with getting stepped on lately. Maybe because deep down I feel I'm a bug? Fuck if I know. "I said I wasn't going to peek, but I need to have some feedback here or I'll feel I'm talking to a wall. Is that a problem?"

I shake my body left to right. Of course we have a problem, I'm a shy pooper. This feels like deja vu all over again.

"So, not a problem?" he asks.

No, yes problem, very much yes a problem! I nod wildly to say yes.

"Okay, no problem then!" he says.

Damn you, English language, and your inability to reconcile with universally understood gestures!

"As I was saying," he starts to say, picking up where he left up, as stated by him, in that sentence, right there, "I need a favor. First, if you can deliver that bag of underwear to Ayden, I would really appreciate it."

I would really appreciate it if he could leave me alone for a moment, but we don't always have what we want. I nod and let it get it over with. My tummy is rumbling.

"Awesome. Second thing," he says, ducking out of view and appearing underneath with a new piece of paper. I hope he doesn't ask me to wipe with that. It looks super sharp, and oddly ornate. "I'll also need you to deliver this here letter to him. If it's okay, that is."

Hu, a letter. How old school. I sure hope it's not a confession. My heart couldn't take it. Or maybe it's a rejection? That would be even worse! My heart couldn't take it. Either way, that envelope is bad news, but not as bad as my heart pumping so hard that I can actually hear it. It beats like "Another One Bites The Dust" by Queen. That's not a healthy way of beating. It usually sounds like "Under Pressure."

"Can you do that for me, bro?" he asks, eyes shining and full of something I can't pin down. Mostly aqueous humor. Eyes are just water balloons with meat if you think about it, which you shouldn't if you don't wanna have an existential crisis.

Either way, I'll surely give it to him. I'm him, after all. I nod.

"Good, good," he says. Hayden lets his words hang around a little, like teenagers outside a 7 Eleven, reaching for something they want, but can't have. Mostly booze, but in his case, is mostly a sense of longing. "You know, I would do it myself, but I can't seem to go meet him. I let him down, you know?"

What is he talking about? I was the one who let him down! He did nothing wrong, except being a cutie patootie, and if that was wrong, I don't wanna be right.

I shake my head all around, trying to make him displace that stupid notion, but he keeps going, ignoring the floppy condom trying to get his attention.

"He... he never made fun of me, you know?" he says, resting his chin on top of the door while his eyes stare longingly at the ceiling. "Everyone who looks at me immediately says that I'm meant for football, just because I'm built like a truck. My other friends look at my passion for food as a hobby. But Ayden? He was ride or die with my dreams. All he asked was a safe space where he could be himself, and what do I do? I vouched for somebody who made him uncomfortable. And for that, he... well, he did something he was not proud of."

Hell yeah, I'm not proud. Or hell no? English is a made-up language. I don't deserve forgiveness.

"But," he continues, still as somber as before, "we all have done that before, you know? And he was always there for us to pick us up. I hit him in the face with a ball and made him faint, but did he hate me? Of course not. He was there, with a smile, ready to be there. I just wanna make him know what he made me feel, that everything is okay and everyone can make a mistake, but I don't know. I'm not good with words. But, I hope this is a good first step towards that."

I... for once, I don't know what to say. What can I say? I never saw it like forgiving him, because there was nothing to forgive. He is him. I love him with all his quirks and his weirdness. I never thought he felt like that. Maybe I should stop using "I" so much and get my head out of my ass and put myself in his shoes for a bit.

A new voice rips through the locker room, reverberating in the small stall like a Dementor trying to suck my soul. Such voice can only come from one particular fucker.

Sorry, I meant to say "Fucher."

"What in the Alaskan Bullworm's gaping ye-haw Spongebob-loving Poseidon are you maggots still doing here?" says the authoritative of Lit. Col. Fuches, also known as the gym teacher/football coach. "The bus is already outside! What's taking you maggots so long? Hayden, you magnificent stallion, move that jelly butt up to that bus or I'll swear to Pope Benedict II that I'll give your phone number to my daughter, and she is super innapropiate while texting! God, I wish you were my daughter, then I would be proud of something that came from my balls!"

"Well, that's my cue," says Hayden. "You stay here, do your business, and I'll call you an Uber. It won't be very hard to spot you, so you just wait to the side of the school. I hope you can do me those favors."

And with that, he's gone. I still don't know what to think. He did tell me those things, but he said it not to "Ayden," but to a condom. I don't even want to shit anymore. I just wanna finish this day and think about things. But for now, I'll take off the suit so I can use my arms again.

After changing my underwear, and cleaning my bum-bum, I waddle outside where a Camry with an Uber sticker is waiting for me by the side of the school.

The driver yells at me as soon as I approach him with a thick Brooklyn accent. We are not even near NY, I think. Still don't know in which state we are.

"Hey, you Ayden, right?" says the man.

I must have heard wrong. Did he say Ayden or Hayden?

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I ask.

"I said," he says, half-leaning out of his window, "You're Ayden Gomez, right? I'm your Uber driver, sent here by Hayden Wilson?"

Wait, did he... did Hayden know it was me? What tipped him off? I said nothing! "How did you know it's me?"

"The guy told me to look for a guy with a huge condom suit and leather pants, and unless there's a sex-ed parade 'round here, you're the only one to fit the bill."

My pants. My leather pants. Of course, he knew. Not many high schoolers use leather nowadays. Man, now I feel like a dick for not saying anything. Yes, that's right, I updated from dildo.

"Well? You gonna get in?" says the driver.

I can think of what to think on the way there. Right now, I open the door, toss the suit and bag, and plop down awkwardly next to it while Mumford and Sons blare from the speakers.

Well, only one thing I can say for sure: I'll have to contact him sooner or later, swallow my pride, and just try to talk things out. No more trying to avoid my feelings. Speaking of feelings, I wonder what he wrote in that letter of his.

I take out the fancy letter, adorned with blue lace with purple finishes, ultra professional. Kinda overkill if you ask me. There is even a wax seal on it, reading KC. Hu. That's not Hayden's name.

Ripping the envelope open reveals a small paper rectangle, adorned y gold and pink, showing three simple if confusing lines:

"You are cordially invited to the nuptials of Brayden Kimchi-Cannoli, to be celebrated this next Wednesday,

No +1 allowed,

Revolvers and 9mm pistols only, gun rack available at location."

Excuse me, but what in the actual, literal fuck?