I've got my hands securely fastened around my favorite guypart, my mouth around my third favorite part, while looking up at my second favorite part. (ass, cock, face) In an ideal world, I'm comfortable. In the real world his massive Lennie hands are cutting of circulation to my brain and are slamming my not incredibly large nose into his mutant outie belly button. I move my left hand from ass cheek to balls and begin to pull in a way that I hope is rather painful. I move my right index finger into No Man's Land and press hard and without warning. He grips harder, slams my head faster and says "Fuck, yeah." I'm not getting my point across at all.

It isn't until I do a little teeth grazing that he moves his hands off my head and moves over to my bed. He stretches out on his stomach, ass in the air. I enjoy the view from where I'm kneeling, but decide I'll be able to appreciate it more from up close. I am correct.

Because I have decided he likes it rough (something I have just about no experience with), I decide to go for the gusto and once my cock is inside, I begin thrusting like a drunken swordfighter in a hall of mirrors. He moans "Oh yes." This is followed by a tremendous crash.

Brett is now wearing my curtains like a wedding veil.

"I was biting down on them." He says after I've pulled out to laugh at him. "They felt really awesome between my teeth. Until the rod fell on my head. Is it a good look for me?"

I answer with a kiss. It's a passionate kiss, but nothing spectacular until he bites my fucken tongue

"What the fuck are you doing, freak?" I ask, checking my tongue for blood, there is none. "Did you learn how to kiss from Freddy Kreuger?"

"You're the one who was pulling my sack like you were ripping the tag off a t-shirt, and grazing my cock with your teeth."

"Well you were slamming my nose into your belly dimmer switch."

"I thought you...dimmer switch?"

"Well it's way too big to be a button, unless it's like The Button that Evil Politicians always have their fingers on." And I press his belly button. "Look how much bigger your belly button is than my finger."

"You have freakishly small hands." He says.

"Yea, and look how much freakishly smaller they look next to your mutant umbilical cord."

He grabs my hands, pushes me back on the bed, and sits so that his ass is rubbing against my cock, and lets out a loud, raunchy fart. Eye wateringly bad. Did I mention his half of the pizza had garlic and anchovies on it?

When I coughed his cock slapped against my stomach which made me want to laugh which made me cough more. I sounded like a cat getting ready to cough up a furball. "Get off me, freak."

"Stop calling me freak." He says, moving his gigantic frog eyes until they are about half a centimeter away from my human-sized ones.

"Stop being freaky, freak."

He moves back and centers his ass over my cock, slides down, and

"Ewwwww." I yell, pulling my cock out of his ass.

"What?" He laughs.

"Dude, didn't that fart feel a little wet to you?"

He continues laughing. "It's not like you aren't wearing a condom. What do you care if it was wet?" Still, he lifts his body up a little bit, and I see that my cock looks the way it usually looks when it's wrapped in blue latex. No shit.

He moves back to his cowboy position, and reaches his hands behind him. He pulls one of the curtains in front of his face. "Oh, Mr. Mode, I do declare, I have sat my derriere on something pointy. It feels quite wonderful."

I snatch the curtain away from him, whip it at him a couple of times and throw it across the room. I then sit up, pushing him onto his back and kiss him so I won't have to listen to his horrible falsetto.

We go for about five minutes before I pull out, and we both make rather a mess of his chest and chin. We lay spread across each other for a few minutes. I can feel sleep falling over my head like those fucken curtains when Brett starts giggling. "What?" I ask.

"I think I left something in the oven."

"The oven?" I ask.

He pulls the covers over our heads, and lets out the wettest sounding, garliciest fart in the history of gastronomical problems

In my mental atlas, I was somewhere south of eviscerating Elvis, a bit northeast of I can't believe that guy got stung by a wasp while we were fucking, and a little to the left of the admissions office, where I was supposed to hand over my check and course choices for the coming semester.

"Mode? Is that you?"

I looked up and saw the sort of hotness you usually only find in the south.

"Brett?" The two of us had met when he moved up from Florida in fourth grade. Because he was new and talked funny, he was relegated to the social outcast circle. In other words, me, Kevin, and our friends. In sixth grade, he started working out and became entirely too pretty to not be popular. In seventh grade, I went away to school and never bothered to keep in touch.

"Wow." he said. "I was just thinking of you the other day."

I was both touched and overly concerned. "You were? Why?"

"Well," and here he paused for about five seconds, grinning at me. He hadn't been thinking of me at all. If he had, he would have known the answer. Why was he stalling? Was someone sneaking up behind me preparing to pants me? "Uh, someone did the Woody Woodpecker laugh that you used to do all the time, and I was like, whatever happened to Mode? You know, one day you were hanging out with us at the beach and the next day you just kinda vanished, but your parents were still around. Weird."

"Yea. I went away to boarding school."

"Rough. Did you kill the family cat or something?" Well, I had sent my cat to live with my Dad after the divorce, and he had left a puddle of antifreeze on the garage floor that P.K. (the cat) had licked, causing him to go to Kitty Heaven. I guess I had rather indirectly killed the family cat, but I failed to see what that had to do with my going away to boarding school.

"Ummmm...no. I just went away to school to get off Cape."

"And now you're back." He said, grinning.

That's right, fucker, I'm back but I'm not too pleased about it.

"Maybe we'll be in the same classes again or something."

We small talked for a bit, exchanged phone numbers, and promised to keep in touch. I don't know which one of us threw away the phone number first, but the next time we communicated each other was in an m4m chat room:

     ibreak4no1:Mode?
     Insafemode:Yes.
     ibreak4no1:it's Brett
     ibreak4no1:I thought you were looking at me funny the other day
     ibreak4no1:what're you doing in this cesspit?

Cruising for ass, naturally. He just happened to be the ass I found. I invited him over to watch X-Files that night. I had stopped being really interested in X-Files when I graduated from high school, but that week, the episode had been written by Stephen King.

At 7:30 Brett came over with pizza and beer, and we talked, watched the first half of the episode, decided it was terrible, and went upstairs to mess around on my computer. We googled old classmates, surfed through Memepool and Somethingawful, and created a troll account to harass the losers in the m4m chat room, what with us no longer being the losers in the m4m chat room.

"It sure is hot in here." Brett said. It was clear from this statement and the things he’d been typing in the m4m room that he had learned how to be suave via poorly written pornos. I mean poorly written FOR porn.

"Uhh...sure." And as I continued typing, I could see his reflection in the monitor taking off his shirt. I decided to be cool and wait thirty seconds before I checked him out. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. I turned around and came nose to navel with what I can only describe as Cabbage Patch belly: smooth, squishy, but with an obscenely long umbilical cord belly button. How had I not seen it through his shirt? It was….hypnotic.

"That’s not my dick." He said, proving that he thought I was as dumb as I thought he was.

"I should hope not." I said. It wasn’t that big. "I’ve just…" and because I had to do something with my mouth before I said something awful, I pulled his head down and kissed him.

The little shit had stolen the limited edition U2 CDs I'd been given in Madison. He didn't even like U2. *breathe* *breathe*

A few days after Seith had gone home I got a call from the lovely people at Bowflex. They wanted to reconfirm that the machine I ordered should now be delivered to Southern State, and not my house.

I explained that they had the wrong person, I did not order a Bowflex, and the other person who lived at this number had moved to Southern State, and I had no way to contact him.

I send Seith an e-mail telling him the Bowflex people are looking for him, and that I want my CDs back.

He informs me that he tried to send my CDs back to me, but he accidentally put his address in the to: portion of the envelope. He'd try again in a few days.

I replied that you couldn't fit my CDs in an envelope, and I didn't understand why he would have to wait a few days. He had no job. He wasn't in school. Blah. I also asked him how his grandfather was, and how long he thought he'd be down there.

That pissed him off.

I got an angry e-mail back about how I treated him like he was stupid, and how he had decided to get back together with Poor Boy because Poor Boy always treated him right. He said he'd send me my CDs after I sent him his chinchilla.

If I could go back in time, I would have sent him Que Mal's corpse. I mean, really, had the chinchilla still been alive, how did he expect me to mail it to him? Also, I paid for the future fur coat, I even named it. I had only referred to it as his because it annoyed me, just like him.

We exchanged nasty e-mails for about a week before I blocked his eddress and tried to banish him from my memory. That was when his Dad called looking for him. We had a nice long chat. I told him that Seith had told me he had gone home. I'd even put him on a bus to Southern State. Seith's Dad informed me that Seith's Mom lived in Southern State, but he lived in An Even Southerner State. Seems he and Seith's Mom had gotten divorced a few months ago, and Seith hadn't taken it well.

I told him that Seith told me his dad had died when he was a kid, and that he lived with his mother and a stepfather who molested him. Seith's Dad was not amused. "Stepfather? Eleanor dumped me for a woman, not a man."

That little shit.

A month passed. Bowflex called me back looking for money. I reexplained that the person who ordered the Bowflex didn't live at this number anymore. "Is this insafemode?" "Yes." "You're listed as his credit reference. Should he default payment, it becomes your responsibility."

"I didn't authorize anyone to use me as a credit reference. I think you've made a mistake."

"Is your social security number xxx-xx-xxxx?"

That little piece of fucken shit. "Yes, but I did not agree to be a credit reference for anything. I didn't even know about it until you called to ask me about a change of address. Don't you need my signature or something to use me as a credit reference?"

"No. All we need is your social security number."

"That's bullshit. I didn't sign for anything. I didn't give anyone permission to use me as a reference." I hung up the phone and called Seith's Dad (God bless Caller ID), and began ranting about The Bowflex situation.

He called Bowflex and straightened it out. I made another effort to not let Seith be involved in my life in any manner. I invested myself in school, made some new friends, and began writing again. I tried not to write about Seith, but that was like trying not to inhale during a tour of a sewage treatment plant. You don't want to, but there's not much choice.

Big Gay Tom tried to fix me up with one of his friends, but I was crushing on a friend of my own.

After three months of celibacy, though, I caved. I called Big Gay Tom's Friend and invited him over to watch Good Will Hunting. We met at a nearby bar at around 7:00. He was pretty average looking, kind of shy, out but not proud. We had a few drinks, dinner, and then I gave him directions back to my place. "You live in Cranberry Lake Condos? I've been there before."

"Really? I thought I was the only one there under forty."

He turned rather red. "I've done some things I'm not proud of."

"Yea, me too."

We had a lot in common. Neither of us would ever be on the cover of GQ or Out magazine. We'd both gone through a bit of a whore phase at around the same time. We both knew Big Gay Tom, and we'd both had a huge crush on one of Tom's cute, straight friends.

 We had another thing in common.

"Wait. How long have you lived here." he asked when I answered the door (he had stopped to pick up the video on the way).

"Ummm..about two years now."

"So --- you lived here last summer."

"Yea." I was staring at one of those Magic-Eye 3-D pictures. A shape was starting to form, but I couldn't yet make out what it was.

"Do you have a roommate?"

That little shit.

"I had a roommate."

"Oh. Seith?"

"Yea. Let's pretend that we didn't have this conversation, though, ok?"

Wake up at noon. Shower. Put appropriate books and work clothes in my backpack. Get dressed. Check e-mail. Eat bagel. Drive to college. Park car. Walk to class. Alternate between paying attention and doing homework. Check e-mail from computer lab. Drive to work. Eat dinner. Throw on uniform. Earn money. When the restaurant closes, drink heavily. Return home. This was the routine for the first forty-five days after I drove Seith out of my life.

On the forty-seventh day, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed, turned, masturbated. Nothing. When seven o’clock rolled around, I conceded defeat, and went into the kitchen to make a bagel. On the way in, I turned on the TV. “Mourners are gathering for Matthew Shepherd who died at 12:53 this morning, nearly a week after...”

Apart from hearing his name mentioned in psychology class, and hearing someone at work mention the tragedy in Wyoming, I had no concept of who Matthew Shepherd was. On October 12th, 1998 that all changed. I didn’t go to class that day. Like most of my "alternative lifestyle" (actor) friends I went about making the tragedy of Matthew Shepherd something tangible. Something we could squeeze in our fists until it bled.

My name is Adam Stone. You might know me as InSafeMode, an all-too openly gay writer/pseudo-political activist. You probably think I can't leave the house without a cock in my mouth. The truth is, until October 12th 1998, only a handful of people knew my sexuality. Ok, a few handfuls if you counted the people I'd hooked-up with over The Internet. Since then I've become outspoken in a way that annoys a number of my Gay colleagues. I do things like use labels like gay and Gay.

I see men who like to love/sleep with men, and women who like to love/sleep with women as being gay. We don't let our sexuality define us anymore than our politics, our diets, our favorite Smurf. On the other side of the equation are people I consider Gay. They wake up in the Gay morning, eat their Gay Cheerios, put on their Gay Diesel jeans, and go about their Gay day, informing everyone who thinks differently than them that they're homophobic. While Gay people annoy the hell out of me, I'm glad they're out their doing what they need to do. There are obviously people in the world who need to hear "We're here, we're queer, don't be a homophobe, buy me a beer." I'm just not one of them.

I saw Shepherd's death as a time for reflection, and horror. Some people saw his death as an opportunity for rebellion against homophobic archetypes. Still others, like that demon "reverend" Phelps, saw it as an opportunity to spread a hateful agenda. He was as entitled to picket Matthew Shepherd's funeral, as I am to picket his when Satan finally comes to collect the withered prune that was once his soul. I'm all about freedom of choice.