Original subtitles

What's the matter?

- Hmm? - What? You seem depressed.

You okay?

- Yeah, I just- - Did someone break up

with you over text again?

No, Madison.

That happened earlier.

No, I just have writer's block.

What?

Well, I already said that his cum is dripping

down the side of my leg,

so I really don't know where to go from there.

I always find it hard to continue the fantasy

after one of us cums.

Typically I'll just like restart the fantasy.

But this one's really hot and it's been going on

for a while, so I'd rather, oh, I got it.

Hmm.

You run the head of your cock up the trail of your seed

collecting it and guiding it all back into my

pulsing hole telling me, I am not allowed

to waste a single drop.

I, I need you to leave.

Like most gay men, my phone is less

of a communication device

and more of an electronic gallery of male genitalia.

Mine in particular is also a tome of erotic fiction

that could make Caligula blush.

Unfortunately, that also means it's a fucking minefield!

For instance,

which one of these is my actual father

and which one is an uncut Brazilian

who demands service from his good boy?

Who can say?

That means I get to live in constant fear

of accidentally texting my actual father

to come over and penetrate me.

I mean, sure I, I could add some devil emojis to some

of these, but you know, what can I say?

I like to live dangerously.

But in that regard, I think I finally met my match.

His name is Greg and he's a goddamn poet.

Check this.

As the head of my impossibly thick member presses against

your throbbing hole,

you'll beg for its entry,

only to silence yourself with a gasp triggered

by the audacity of the penetration.

That's some fucking Maya Angelou shit right there.

That's the kinda shit I need from my guy.

I'm an elder millennial, which means

that I didn't grow up in a world of safe spaces,

anti-bullying, valuing other people's experiences,

just generally caring about other people's feelings.

So that means I need a steady stream

of sexual attention in order

to feel any amount of self-esteem.

If you would like to date me, you need

to bring a fire hose of erotic energy so

that I can feel that I have value.

Hey Siri, text Greg.

What do you want to say?

That gasp is accompanied by a spasm that grips your cock,

undeterred you continue your momentum forward,

as I learn to accept you,

I have no other choice.

Mind your fucking business!

This little naughty game of pen pals

started at like the 10th message exchange,

which is nuts, but also amazing.

And while we did meet on a dating app,

the texting has just been so hot

and so frequent that we've realized we just need

to fuck first and that is happening tonight.

Now while I have been belt tucking 24/7 in anticipation

of this, part of me is worried that the final release

of our mounting sexual tension will lay waste

to half of Brooklyn.

Hey Siri, text Greg.

What do you want to say?

As you reach the deepest parts of me,

I will suddenly rediscover speech.

"Please," I'll whimper.

At first, you think I need more time to open for you,

but you'll look into my eyes

and realize what I'm asking for is to be filled.

Thank you, Kyle!

It is rare for me to find a man that can go toe to toe

with me on this,

but this guy is, wait for it...

An erotic workshop coach.

Yeah, like tantric shit.

And you know the stuff whores like me would do if we wanted

to make money from sex but weren't quite ready

to cross the Rubicon into escort or porn star?

"Please" not "cheese."

Siri is homophobic.

And honestly, if you think about it,

isn't an erotic workshop coach like the perfect guy for me?

I mean, if I could go back in time

and do it all over again, I'd probab-

You know, if I've learned anything from the last 20 years

of being a gay man, it's that, you know,

cultivating an intellect, developing a vibrant

personality,

pursuing a legal career, fostering a creative outlet,

you know, those were all just

a complete fucking waste of time!

What I should have done, is gone to the gym

a little bit more and then become a sex worker.

And that way gay people would give a shit about whether

I were dead or alive.

Roads not taken.

Namaste. Welcome to my temple, Daniel.

Would you care for an herbal tea?

There's something so unsettling about

a man that drinks tea.

So are we doing like a meditation role play

or something?

I just wanna make sure we're on the same page.

Roles...

We play all sorts of roles, don't we?

Those that we choose,

those that are put upon us by the rest of the world.

Every moment of every waking hour is a role play, Daniel.

So why should now

be any different?

I'm starting to get real worried about what's

in this tea.

Shall we discuss consent before we begin, Daniel?

Oh, yeah, sure.

So don't hit me. Don't choke me.

No fish hooks. Don't call me a whore.

No extracurricular fluids and-

You're speaking of boundaries, Daniel, not consent.

In my line of work, it is vital

that all sexual experiences be entirely consensual.

Sure.

Well you will be happy to know that all of the sex

I have had to date has been consensual.

Are you sure, Daniel?

Pretty sure I've never raped anybody.

You have so much to learn, Daniel.

But most people do.

In my line of work, each look, each touch,

each act must be consented to.

Interesting.

So how about I just give you blanket consent

that I can revoke in my discretion

and we do it just like everyone else does it?

I'm not everybody else, Daniel.

Sure isn't.

Danny, may I truly meet your gaze?

Sure.

Thank you for your consent.

Now,

may I disrobe?

Why not?

Alright, pro, it's a nice one

and it lives up to the pictures.

Con,

it's very possible he's a serial killer.

Guess there's only one way to find out.

You see,

you have already engaged in three non-consensual acts.

What?

One, you do not ask if you had my consent to disrobe.

Two, you do not ask if you had my consent to rise

to your knees or turn your gaze to my penis.

Now you see, don't you?

Fear not,

I forgive you for violating me

and I'd be happy to continue

now that you understand the true complexities

of sexual consent.

If you'd like, I give you consent to take me

into your throat.

This guy's so fucking creepy!

But I'm also incredibly hard.

Oh I'm broken.

Alright, so we're never gonna date

because I don't wanna ever have

to introduce this lunatic to anyone,

let alone have to live in the woods or whatever.

But if I'm being honest,

every inch of my body is tingling.

I mean, I've practically been edged the whole night,

albeit in the most cringe way possible.

I don't know, maybe we'll be like fuck buddies or something.

There might be something to this after all.

Danny, we're almost finished.

I suggest you find your inner most sanctum!

You're in my inner most sanctum!

Oh, ah,

I must rest, Daniel,

I give you consent to finish in my absence.

- Reply. - What do you want to say?

Would you like to see a hole pic?

It says, "Would you like to see Epic?"

Send it?

No.

What do you want to say?

Would-you-like-to see-a-hole-pic?

It says, "Would you like to see the Hobbit?"

Send it?

No!

What do you want to say?

Would

you

like

to

see

a

hole

pic?

It says, "When can I meet your parents?"

Send it? - I'm going to bed.