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Coitus Interruptus

In a cozy apartment gently scented with lingering curry spices, Harold—mid-50s, with a warm roundness and a distinguished thinning of hair—relaxed on a couch that had become a trusted companion over the years. He wore a cherished Mega Quest III T-shirt that lovingly hugged his middle, and sweatpants that told stories of many joyful evenings with microwave enchiladas. Today, however, was special. Harold’s personal day of reflection and joy. He had orchestrated everything with the precision of a maestro preparing for a grand symphony. The blinds were half-drawn, casting a gentle, inviting mystery across the room. His laptop was fully charged. A fresh bag of cheese puffs stood poised, accompanied by a loyal roll of paper towels. And his browser? A thoughtfully curated array of bookmarked videos, queued perfectly to match his desires. Harold stood and took a deep, satisfying breath. It was time. With the grace of someone who had watched Magic Mike and embraced its spirit in his own unique ...
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Confessional

"So, was it everything you imagined?" Marcus lay back against the pillows, still catching his breath. His thick fingers absently smoothed over his stomach, a gentle motion, like he was settling himself back into his body after having given it over to something raw and urgent. The man beside him, whose name he had already half-forgotten—Dan? Don?—turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Marcus chuckled, his voice still hoarse from exertion. "Yeah. Yeah, you were good." He patted the man's thigh, a gesture meant to be reassuring, though it probably came off as absentminded. "Just good?" The younger man smirked. He was younger, though not by much—maybe late forties, a bit leaner but with a softness around the middle that suggested he, too, had long since given up on the rigid expectations of youth. Marcus exhaled, shifting his weight on the mattress. "I don't hand out gold stars, kid." The man laughed. "Fair enough." H...
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A Toast to the Years Between

The sun was too bright, the speeches too long, and Leonard Blackstone was beginning to regret not wearing a hat. He sat in the fifth row of folding chairs, surrounded by a sea of parents, grandparents, and the glossy-eyed graduates of Grayson University’s Class of 2025. His grandson, Eli, would be walking soon — smart, confident, out in a way Leonard had never dared to be at his age. The ceremony dragged on. He adjusted the collar of his linen blazer and let his gaze drift toward the campus buildings beyond the lawn, their red-brick faces nearly unchanged since he himself had studied here in the spring of 1969. Those years clung to him like smoke, not quite dissipated — his hand still remembered the texture of certain dorm walls, the smell of dust and desire caught between the pages of borrowed library books. “Lenny?” The voice was hesitant, softened by time but instantly recognizable. Leonard turned. There he was. Warren Delaney. Same eyes — slate-blue, sharp at the corners, a little ...
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The Shed Behind the Tilt-a-Whirl

The murmur of the fair faded behind them as the equipment shed door creaked shut, muffling the laughter of children and the whir of cheap generators. Inside, the dim yellow bulb buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows over coils of hose, stacks of signage, and damp towels slumped over crates like forgotten flags. It smelled of wet canvas and sawdust, of something boyish and ancient. Judge Lionel Graves, still dripping in his button-down shirt yanked at the zipper of his soaked pinstriped trousers. The navy polyester clung like a second skin, unwilling to let go. Across from him, Dr. Everett Field was bent at the waist, trying to peel a sopping polo shirt over his head, revealing a stocky torso for a man who spent his days behind a desk, dispensing prescriptions and advice in equal measure. Lionel looked away too quickly. “That dunk tank’s colder than it used to be.” Everett laughed, muffled behind a tangle of damp cotton. “Or maybe we’re just older than we used to be.” There was a beat ...
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