I Wish I Wore a Condom Because the Hooker Ended Up Being My Mom

I'm staring at myself in the bathroom mirror for the second time today, like I'm about to have a fucking intervention with my reflection. "You are not going to fuck this up, Gabriel King," I tell myself, pointing an accusatory finger at my mirror self. "This is your one shot at being a normal college dude who doesn't jerk off thinking about his Mom's massive milkers."

Jesus Christ, I can't believe I just said that out loud, even to myself. The bathroom fan hums overhead, drowning out my self-loathing, thank God. Mom's still not home, one of her mysterious late work nights, which means I've got the house to myself while I get ready for Brad's party.

A party. With actual people.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some sense into my system. The guy staring back at me from the mirror looks exactly like what I am. A nervous wreck pretending to be a functional human being. My brown hair is doing that weird flippy thing it does when I'm stressed. I try smoothing it down, but it's like trying to tame a fucking rebellion.

"It's just a party," I mutter, gripping the edge of the sink. "People go to parties all the time. Normal people. Which is what you're trying to be, remember?"

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Brad.

Yo dude! Party's starting to heat up. You coming?

Attached is a photo of him with two girls I don't recognize, all holding red cups and grinning like they're having the time of their lives. My stomach does a weird flip-flop of anxiety and excitement.

I text back: On my way. Need me to bring anything?

Brad replies almost instantly: Just your A game, bro!!!! 🔥🔥🔥

I grab my keys, a six-pack of beer I stole from the fridge, and head out the door before I can talk myself out of it. The whole drive over, my knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I follow Google Maps to Brad's address. It's in one of those off-campus houses that looks like it's held together by beer stains and broken dreams.