Chapter 1 - trevor 1

Chapter I
Trevor
Trevor’s house, December 22nd, 01:04 am

It happens every fucking winter. The weirdest part of this whole thing is that I kind of enjoy it.
I try to button up my black skin-tight jeans with more intensity; I am literally laying on my bed to win the war against my wardrobe. I peek at a small roll of belly fat covering my belt.
I squint at the clock. I’m late for the party and I have zero excuses. Even if jerking off on an article about Chris Pratt’s weight gain is such an understandable justification for me, it’s not for my group of friends - or the rest of the world, really. I’m at peace with that. I like being average but having my dirty secrets, it makes me feel normal.
I don’t know exactly what this attraction for fat guys really is and why I have it. I mean, with a big body comes… big responsibilities, I guess? It seems fun. Even if I feel a bizarre positive sensation when I gain some pounds during the winter holidays, I could never get proper fat.
For example, I like clubbing and I can’t stand sweating. I love feeling dramatic while smoking cigarettes like a movie star, but I couldn’t accept being out of breath after a run for any other reason. And damn, I live for the attention of the guys. Being fat gets you the attention of a few shy guys who end up ghosting you because they are embarrassed about liking you. Also, most of the fat guys I know get these cheeks that seem to eat their entire face. Not a big fan of it and can’t see it for me, uh-uh.
I always had a bubble butt, though, which I think is the perfect middle ground between being fit and experiencing that nice feeling when you put underwear on and some meat gets stuck in the way.
My rear end is not Kardashian material, don’t get me wrong. But, like, it’s chunky. My ex-boyfriend Jonah said it was ‘grabbable’, and he could never take his hands off it – and his pants on, for that matter. If we also consider the fact that my waist is half of my hips, my ass never fails in getting the attention of the gay guys of my little town, Nittsburgh.
Nitts is one of those very small villages not too far but still not close to New York, where everyone knows each other and where half of my high school peers will probably be trapped here forever and live their lives without ever exploring what 's out of here. Then, they’ll probably end up dying in the same hospital they were born in. Crazy enough, I can’t stand it.
Even parties are always a pretty odd situation. We rotate scenarios every weekend: sometimes we all gather around the plaza in front of the baptist church, sometimes we go for a quiet rave in the bushes… when we are lucky a house is free because some parents are out of town doing some cheesy stuff together.
Too bad it’s not like in the teen movies I love to watch. There is alcohol, sure, and people are really judgmental and shit-talk about other guests with an impressive nonchalance as if we were all in Mean Girls or stuff like that. But it stops there. You can look them in the eyes and understand that all the pettiness and superiority they are showing off is just to not admit they’re as empty as their bottles at the end of the night.
When it comes to me, to be fair, they don’t have much to say. I was out of the closet before being gay was socially accepted, so I drip in this kind of unclockable aura that makes me an exception to the “he says she says” talks. They complain about my weight gain during the winter days, but they usually stop in some weeks when I lose all of it. They like how I act during the performances at my drama club. I think it’s something to keep in mind when it comes to questioning why I seem to be left out from the low-key bullying at my school. I’m likable, maybe. But I hate to say that myself.
I cover the stretched button of my jeans with a stronger belt, I pick my denim jacket from the floor and leave my home with a bottle of gin in my hand. I’m sure I will find some mixer at Gabby’s place.
While I cross the main road to get to hers, my friend Kyle crosses it at the same time. He gets closer and says hi, touching my back with his warm, big hand.
He’s fast at looking at my little belly and trying to hide a disgusted face, but I noticed him. I’m not hurt, not at all. I don’t really have the time to focus on that flashy move because he smiles at me immediately after. I guess it’s his way to say he’s sorry for his curiosity – and for being fatphobic too.
I know that smile. It allures to the fact that every time there’s a house party I end up very drunk doing really stupid shit which sometimes even gets filmed and posted on Instagram. Kyle and most of the people at my school find it funny, I don’t. My character is not the funny guy, which is an easy mistake as soon as you join the drama club. It’s not me all the time, okay? Just when I get drunk. I just go as crazy as a gay white boy can get. I just wake up some days thinking “I don’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion” and other days where my only constant thoughts is “What do I wear today for not get bad looks from my group of friends?”
Well, guess what? If you didn’t get it by the fact that I’m going to a party wearing this ridiculously tight pair of jeans, today is one of those happy-go-lucky days.
“Dear friend, shit is about to get down” I say to Kyle before sipping my bottle of pure gin and walking towards the music outside Gabby’s house. When I turn around to check on him, I notice is still in the back. I assume a bitter face.
“Are you literally checking my ass right now?” I ask, pretty frustrated. Deep down, I love it.
“W-What? No, it’s just… your jeans…” he answers, pointing at my bum.
I use the selfie mirror to find out about a huge jeans rip in the middle of my butt crack.
“Oh, for fuck sake…” I snort, before covering it by roping my jacket around my waist.
“It’s a look” Kyle screams, before getting at the front door.
Lately I might have been indulging in the candies a bit more than usual.