Best self

by BRK   

“Viral video” doesn’t always mean what you think it means.

Terrence Skynner grimaced as he felt his phone buzz in his back pocket. He reached back to retrieve the battered device, clumsily elbowing one of the topless, sweaty moshers seething around him to the deafening music the neo-emo queer-punk cyber-fit boy band was grinding out on stage loud enough to loosen the rivets on the college’s multipurpose indoor arena as he did so. He really hoped it wasn’t a text from his mom telling him to come home and wash her feet or something. Or his aunt wanting him to cover another diner shift for that lazy cousin of his who’d called out three times this week already. He hated being here, but getting out of the venue now at the height of the concert, especially from where he was in the packed primo “seating” area right up by the stage, would be even more of a pain than staying in for the duration would be.

Why had he agreed to cover WhyZone for the campus student daily? He did news and politics, not this. He was skinny and unprepossessing and entirely out of place here. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t a glitter-abbed twunk, he liked wearing button-up shirts, and the only music he listened to was Lofi Focus playlists when he was studying for his engineering tests. He was as far from being this band’s target demo as Azaz the Unabridged was from Lady Gaga. And so much for his “noise canceling” earbuds! They might as well have said “now with extra ear canal resonance” on the box.

He sighed as he thumbed at the pitted screen, trying to wake the curmudgeonly old phone. Maybe it was his editor, Seth, telling him he didn’t have to bother with the WhyZone review. Which would merely mean that the whole evening was a write-off and he’d risked contracting tinnitus for nothing.

Okay, you’re being a little cynical there, Terr, he admonished himself with a wry smirk. Dial back the pretty-boy jealousy a bit. Terrence sighed. He wasn’t above admitting it wasn’t the music he hated so much as the fact that everyone here was hotter than he was.

The screen lit and he squinted at the message.

Hell, this is Macrosoft Tactile Support. We have diagnosed a problem with your, self. Are you experiencing your best self? We have detected many errors. Your security tactile self-errors can be replaced! Do not hack or be hack. Resolve immediately download video https://dub.sh/9X3nNw4

Terrence wanted to laugh. Even here in the middle of shirtless pandemonium he’d gotten a classic MTS scam, misspellings, weird grammar, and all. There truly was no escape! Though it fit that the message was addressed to “Hell,” at least.

His eyes drifted to the WhyZone member currently singing lead, the platinum blond with the big pecs and the barbell nipple-piercing just visible through his tights. He really felt drawn to him. Not that he was hotter than the rest—each of the six took turns taking lead, and each drove their fans nuts to equal sexy-lust frenzy. They were all ridiculously handsome, openly gay, and built like an all-male Olympic gymnastic team. Even the generous bulges in their skintight white costumes were a common feature to the whole group.

Terrence had to admit, though, if he were gay he’d go for the blond. And if he were the blond, he’d go for—

Thus distracted, he was trying to delete the message when the “song” WhyZone was performing, a racing techno cover of “What Makes Your Beautiful”, hit a sudden “Whoop!” in the chorus (probably not there in the original, Terrence thought acidly) made the entire crowd throw their arms up and yell, “Whoop!!”—including the hot Asian guy on Terrence’s other side, the one Terrence hadn’t elbowed yet. Even so, hot Asian guy unknowingly got retribution for his unknown compatriot, the one on the other side who looked like a Viking rent boy, and clocked Terrence in the ear with his fist as it shot up toward the rafters with all the others. In the pain and confusion Terrence’s thumb must have slipped from the “delete” button to the highlighted link in the suspicious text, because a moment later someone was speaking in his earbuds and he realized there was a video playing on his phone. A scam video!

Frantically, Terrence tried stopping the playback, but his phone—or the video—was happily ignoring him. On his screen a well-built shirtless guy was walking slowly along an empty, idyllic beach. He had warm medium-brown skin and tight blond curls, and came across well-lit and earnest, like a spokesmodel in an expensive prescription drug ad. He was, in a word, beautiful.

Terrence made a noise in his throat. He really was surrounded.

The sound was surprisingly clear, and at last the din of the concert obligingly squelched under the audio playing on his phone. The earbuds’ noise cancellation must have finally kicked in, he thought.

“You clicked on this link because there’s something wrong with your existence,” the spokes-hunk said confidently in a smooth tenor that seemed to sink deep into Terrence’s chest. “That’s pretty brave!”

Terrence goggled at the offhandedly callous spokes-hunk, even as around him everyone yelled out another ear-splitting “Whoop!” in time with the chorus reprise. Something wrong with his existence? Seriously?

At this point, Viking Rent Boy noticed Terrence on his phone and gave him a berserker scowl of disapproval, as if Terrence were deliberately sabotaging the whole concert where he stood. Terrence ignored him. Viking Rent Boy was bad for his ego, and not just because the tanned, rippling abs and chiseled jawline were such a contrast to the flat, pasty, and uninteresting versions Terrence possessed. Unless he had a sock stuffed in those skinny jeans, junk-wise VRB was the luckiest dude Terrence had had a run-in with in quite a while, and that included the famously bulging crotches of the sleekly muscled and universally wet-dreamy boy band currently harmonizing their lungs out on stage not twenty feet away from him. If he didn’t know better, from tonight’s evidence Terrence would be inclined to think that all gay young men were hot, horny, and hung like everyone here appeared to be.

He hmphed to himself. Maybe he’d try making that his headline. Not that Seth would go for it, but it would be fun to have a go.

He looked around. It was kind of eerie. If anything, everyone had gotten hotter just in the last minute. That had to be his paranoia kicking in, though.

“So tell me,” the spokes-hunk was saying in his ears, a brief zoom making it seem like his eyes were boring into Terrence’s, “what’s getting in the way of you being your best self? What are you missing?”

“Are you kidding me?” he shouted at the phone. “I don’t know, abs, fucker! I’m missing abs!”

Viking Rent Boy turned and gave him another death glare, but Terrence’s focus was all on the video. The latte-skinned, gym-rat-muscled spokes-hunk was nodding sagely. “And does that make you happy? Does it really fix what’s missing in your best self?”

Terrence pursed his lips, wanting to grumble. He glanced down at the loose hockey jersey he was wearing, a hand-me-down he’d gotten from his athlete brother ages ago. He knew the sculpted six-pack and defined muscles hidden away underneath had never been his ticket to popularity or self-satisfaction. Everyone had so much more. Even his natural predisposition for washboard abs, honed by rote since puberty with the minimum number of daily sit-ups, didn’t seem like enough.

His eyes drifted to the perfectly muscled, excessively handsome, redonkulously equipped platinum blond singing aggressively to the audience—seriously, had he gotten hotter, hunkier, and more hung in the last thirty seconds?—and was suddenly fuming.

“So what is it?” the spokes-hunk pressed, another slow zoom making their interaction more intimate and urgent. “What’s your best self?”

“Like him!” Terrence gritted out to the phone, low and angry. “I need a ‘me’ who’s hot, hard-muscled, shirtless all the time, hung beyond belief, gay as fuck, and confident enough to—”

Suddenly T.J.’s top-of-the-line foldable phone was knocked out of his hand and Viking Rent Boy was in his face. If the trope had played out the way it normally did in films, his sexy assailant would have been grabbing the front of T.J.’s shirt and hauling him up to his own eye level. But the joke was on him—T.J. didn’t wear shirts, and he was already face to face with the Nordic bad boy.

Instead, VRB had grabbed the waistband of T.J.’s jeans, right in front. Dangerous, T.J. thought with a smirk. You might wake the beast.

“You’re being a real dick, you know that?” roared Viking Rent Boy.

T.J. grinned like the roué he was. “I am a dick, aren’t I, Sven?” he shouted back, adding as a challenge, “Why don’t you kiss it out of me?”

VRB’s sky-blue eyes blazed, and then he dove in and kissed T.J. fiercely, his free hand reaching automatically for T.J.’s six-inch-thick pecs and the U-shaped piercing adorning his down-facing right nipple. The man’s other hand gripped T.J.’s waistband even harder, and the Nordic hottie groaned into the aggressive kiss as T.J.’s beast sprang to life, pushing along VRB’s knuckles as it grew.

The song ended and the entire crowd cheered and screamed, and T.J. was happy to pretend it was all for them and their ferocious, tongue-wrestling kiss.

They broke apart, panting as they stared hard into each other’s eyes like horny predators. The situation was dire. The two of them might have descended into animal fucking right then and there, if a 6-foot-6 bouncer with enough muscles for three men poured into a skin-tight black tee shirt with SECURITY in white letters across the front hadn’t appeared just then at T.J.’s shoulder.

“Sir, there you are,” the security guy said, his voice so deep it was almost beyond the registers human ears were capable of discerning. “What are you doing down here? Austin says you’re on after the next number. He sent me to find you!”

T.J. blinked at him. Belatedly he recognized his personal bodyguard, Malik. He tossed the big guy a crooked grin—it was true, he was pushing the timetable a bit. “C’mon, Mal, you know Austin’s a great manager but kind of a worrywart,” he said, throwing an arm around the hulking bodyguard. “Take me back to where I need to be, will ya?”

“Always,” Malik said.

One of the members of WhyZone was announcing the next song and naming the backup instrumentalists, giving them a little aural and temporal space before they had to be backstage. T.J. glanced up to see Viking Rent Boy staring hard at him, his look more savagely possessive than ever. “You’re T.J. Skye,” he said, voice dripping with lust. Then, unexpectedly, he handed T.J.’s phone back to him—he must have picked it up from the floor while T.J. was interacting with Malik.

Arm still around his well-muscled muscle, T.J. unlocked the device one-handed and wordlessly passed it back to the shirtless fan. VRB grinned and took it, adding an entry into T.J.’s contacts and handing it back with a wink. Without looking, T.J. folded the phone and stuffed it in his back pocket. “See you soon, Sven!” he called, making the Nordic hottie smile salaciously at the little pet name as Malik started guiding him with steady expeditiousness through the tightly-packed crowd.

As he moved away, T.J. was sure he heard “Sven” say, “Fuck, I wish I was as hot as him.” A warmth flared in his muscular chest, and he smiled the biggest smile that week. This really was his best self, no question about it.

Meanwhile, in his pocket, an unauthorized recently installed app on his phone found the new contact and quietly sent the recipient a very suspicious-looking text…

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