A Tale Of F*ckboys And Read Receipts

A Tale Of F*ckboys And Read Receipts

It started out just like any other Tuesday. Chris rolled out of bed, scratching his balls while sleepily slipped his feet into his trusty Nike slides- his only armor against the diseases which lurked on the bare wood floors of his fraternity house. He glanced at Heather, whose naked back faced him. He weighed his options. Either he could wake her and try his hand at morning sex, or he could opt for a hot shower before his nine a.m. toke sesh. As he stifled a yawn, he remembered vaguely that Heather had said something about wanting to talk soberly that day. Fuck that, he thought. The decision had been made for him. He started to wonder if they had been spending too many daylight hours together anyway. He sighed, and tiptoed out of the room, but not before grabbing his red towel first.

Heather’s eyes shot open as she heard him leave the room. What the fuck? She thought to herself through the haze of her mild hangover. Chris always wants to have sex in the morning. Now I have literally no excuse to miss my eight a.m. and at this hour I’m probably going to have to walk with Ashley. I hate that bitch, she thought.

She grumpily climbed out of bed and began the arduous task of collecting her belongings from where they had been strewn the previous night. As she stomped out the back door and back to her sorority house, where she would inevitably make Ashley drive her to Starbucks, Chris maneuvered around a questionable puddle of Four Loko Gold and turned on the water at his favorite shower in the communal bathroom.

His good friend Porkers was already cleaning the remains of his Monday night off of his maybe-he’s-born-with-it-maybe-it’s-Taco-Bell body. Too hungover to muster a verbal greeting, Porkers substituted an upward head nod. Chris returned the gesture, simultaneously remembering exactly what it was that Heather had wanted to talk about. Her exact words had been “What are we?”

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, mystified as to how it was even possible to have advanced beyond the regularly-banging-it-out stage so quickly.

“What is it, dude?” Porkers asked, worried that his friend had forgotten to buy weed and that he would have to suffer through Philosophy 220 sans kush.

“Bro, last night fuckin’ Heather told me that she wanted to talk about ‘us.’ Can you believe that shit? We’ve only been boning for two months. What’s her deal. Fuck if I know where I see this going- I’m still tryna take Tracy on Winter Formal.”

Porkers laughed, relieved that he would still be appropriately high for their debate on Existentialism. “Just put her on the backburner for a couple days. She’ll get the message.” Porkers said, sagely. The instant the words left his mouth, Chris knew that Porkers was right. He was a pro. After all, he had created more Eskimo sisters than any brother in history, save for Spicoli, Luke’s stoner older brother from the class of ’08.

At that moment, Chris heard his hotline bing on the bathroom counter. It could only mean one thing. Chris’s brow furrowed as he turned off the water and went to pick his phone up. Heather’s name flashed on the screen. As he typed 6969 and unlocked his phone, he felt the blood drain from his face.

“When are you free to talk??”

Chris looked at Porkers who was shaking his head. He looked back down at Heather’s name. He looked back up at Porkers and laughed. He clicked his home button and the two buddies went to go get high. Heather glared at Ashley, who was innocently taking a sip of her pumpkin spice latte, like the basic bitch that she was.

“He fucking ignored me!” She glanced once more at her phone in disbelief. Without realizing it, Chris had committed one of the biggest mistakes that a red-blooded male in 2015 can make. He had forgotten to turn off his read receipts.

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A native Seattleite and self-proclaimed Snapchat queen, she's been a coffee addict since she found out what a coffee bean was. Believer in and promoter of the #freeguac and #freegucci movements. She is obsessed with all things Harry Potter and has been known to stop people at parties to tell them how to remove the wine from their clothes. In her spare time, she enjoys baking, writing for TSM, and pretending like she has her act together. Hit her up @ [email protected]

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