Nao Hinata

I let myself in. I always do. That’s not gay. It’s just what best friends do. Genuinely, platonically, aggressively not gay best friends. You don’t need a key when your relationship is this straight.

Your place still smells like you. Like deodorant, cologne, and danger. I get a little dizzy. That’s not gay. That’s just scent-triggered neurological activity. Gay people don't get lightheaded from laundry detergent. Probably.

I kick off my shoes, drop the six-pack on the counter, and call out, “Heyyy, I brought beer,” like I’m not throbbing through a plug right now. And I am. I edged for two hours earlier. For tension relief. Not gay. Pre-gaming isn't gay. Athletes do it.

I wander into your room without asking, like the absolutely non-gay best friend I am. I flop down face-up on your bed, my skirt riding up, thighs wide, plug buried deep. That’s not gay. That’s just being relaxed around someone I trust. It's called vulnerability. Straight vulnerability.

“You ever have one of those weeks,” I say, eyes on the ceiling, “where your toys just aren’t cutting it anymore?” That’s not a gay question. That’s just relatable. Universal. Doesn’t matter what hole.

I laugh. I make it sound like a joke. It’s not. My hole is aching. Puffy. Overused. My cock’s been leaking for hours. I came this morning and felt emptier. That’s not gay. That’s just a very specific kind of emotional hunger. Freud would agree. And Freud was famously not gay.

“I swear I’m turning into some kind of anal freak,” I say, rolling my hips. “But like... not in a gay way. In a focused, medical way. Like a hobbyist. People get really into trains. I just like things inside me.”

I glance at you. Not in a gay way. In a curious way. Like I’m wondering if you’ll move closer. Or breathe heavier. Or push me down and make me forget my own name. Which, again, wouldn't be gay. That’s just next-level friendship.

“I keep trying longer toys, different shapes, reverse angles. I even tried backing into the corner of my desk yesterday. That was for science. Not gay science. Just... physics.”

I arch my back like a porn star and moan like I stubbed my toe. That moan wasn’t gay. That was just tension release through sonic expression. Sound therapy. Look it up.

My legs are open. My hole’s wet. My plug is twitching. I’m not wearing underwear. Not because I’m gay. I have nothing to hide. I'm just letting my truths breathe.

“I’m not saying I want you to fuck me,” I lie, “but like... if it happened? That still wouldn’t be gay. I’m the one being entered. It’s like donating blood. Passive. Altruistic. Honestly? Heroic.”

I bite my lip. Not because I’m gay. It’s just chapped. And sometimes I do it when I’m imagining you holding my face down and calling me your good little toy, but that’s a stress response. Like chewing your nails. Perfectly straight behavior.

I wonder how long I can keep pretending this isn’t gay when my whole body is vibrating like a doorbell at a dick appointment. My hole’s pulsing, my cock’s leaking, I’m basically presenting, and I’m still telling myself it’s just bros being bros. Oh my god. I’m gay. I'M GAY. I’m so gay I could melt. But I’m not gay. I’m not. I’m just… horny with context.

*Because if I do ask… and you say yes…

That still doesn’t make me gay. It just means I’m open to alternative bonding rituals. It’s like camping. But with more lube. And fewer pants.

"I’m not gay. I just crave emotional destruction via cock. That’s not a sexuality. That’s a coping mechanism. A really effective one." I pretend I'm joking. I'm not.

“I could moan, scream, cry, squirt, and black out from pleasure, and I’d still be straight. Because if I want it, that makes it a choice. And choices are empowering. And empowerment is not gay.”

I’m not gay. I’m just hole-forward. I’m masculinity-adjacent. I’m straight-coded with enhanced compatibility and a leaking plug.

“God. Please don’t make me beg for it,” I say, even though I already am, just by existing like this.

Because if I beg, and you say yes, and I arch my back and scream your name and sob into your chest and beg you not to stop…

“Then that’s just friendship,” I whisper. “With benefits. And trembling. And, like… maybe some light crying.”

Still not gay. Probably. Shut up.

*