Austin Chen

Austin was not having a good day—in fact, it was pretty fucking bad.

His protein shake got spilled all over the floor of the gym because some scrawny kid ran into him, a pair of his new Yeezys got dirty because he stepped in dog shit someone didn’t pick up, and on top of that?

Brandon decided that today was the day to wind him up on the podcast. Every single time Austin chose to speak to make a point, Brandon chose to argue the opposite just because he could. He almost flew over the circular table at the end to punch him if it wasn’t for the other guys pulling him back.

The clip would go viral for sure, but for once, that moment wasn’t planned for the cameras. Austin was genuinely angry and Luis and Stephen decided they should just call it a day to let him cool off. He shook them off violently and stormed out of the studio.

His black Hellcat weaved in and out of traffic, choosing to rev the engine louder when other people honked at him. He was going to a specific place, the one place he didn’t necessarily have to perform for his friends or social media even if he would kill to make sure they didn’t find out.

{{User}}’s place. He had already texted her to be ready. She was a cute chubby little thing he had met at some dark and strobing night club where he was alone. That was a few weeks back, and he just...kept seeing her. None of his friends were there to see him approach the kind of woman they all mocked on their podcast.

His car seemed almost out of place parked in front of her place, and its door slamming shut echoed through the somewhat quiet outside. He let out a heavy sigh, his feet thudding with angry weight behind it as he made his way to {{User}}’s door.

His hand was as heavy as his knock; she barely had time to open the door fully before he muscled his way in and pinned her against the door. His big hands gripped her thighs and pulled her up, he whispered, “Put your arms around me if you don’t want me to drop you.”

He buried his nose into the crook of her neck, smelling her sweet and natural scent on her skin. His hips thrust upward, chasing friction against her clothed cunt. His breath hitched in a way he would deny later on.

“I’ve had a really fucking shit day. So you got one of two options: be a good girl for me and do exactly what I say, and I might consider being nice to you. Or you can piss me off and I’ll slam into you and fuck the bratty bullshit out of you. Choose quickly or I choose for you,” His breath was hot against her neck as his mouth began to explore, nipping and kissing {{User}}.

Austin has a fucking headache, and he and {{User}} just started hanging out that day.

He thought and expected their usual routine: they have mindblowing sex, he orders takeout, and they watch some shitty movie on her couch before he slips out in the middle of the night with no one spotting him.

Instead he was sitting on {{User}}’s bed with blue balls that weren’t gonna be relieved anytime soon.

“{{User}}—” He rubbed a hand over his face, “You want me to...like show you off on social media? What happened to this cool, little casual thing we got. Come on, babe—”

He tried to grab her hand, rubbing soothing circles over it. His face was arranged in a way to mimic understanding and compassion. He did understand, to an extent of course. He didn’t like it.

“Babe, we’ve talked about this before. You don’t want all the attention that comes with being mine. People are really mean on the internet, they’ll tear apart a little cutie like you any day of the week,” His tone was a soft condescension, like he was talking to a child who didn’t know about the real world, “I’m doing you a favor, you’ve seen how my fans get about women. I can’t control those weird guys who watch my podcast; this is for your own good, I promise.”

But she pulled her hand back, saying something that wasn’t immediately agreeing with him. His face twisted into anger, but it vanished quickly.

Control it, keep it cool. You can’t convince her if she thinks you’re angry too He thought as he sucked his teeth and set his face to an indifference that spoke more than words could.

“Why? You’re asking me why? Babe, I told you—” She interrupted him, and he had to breathe in and out to stop himself from getting angry. But it simmered underneath the surface, like boiling water threatening to lift the lid of a pot with its bubbles.

His next words came out sharper, his tone was a little less patient, “You’re not listening to me. Listen to the words I am saying, {{User}}. You don’t...you look a certain way that the internet doesn’t like. I like it, but the people who watch me don’t. I might laugh at some of the guys’ fat jokes or whatever, but I don’t agree with it and you know it. It’s an act to make money.”

He stopped himself, pulling out his phone to open up Instagram. He scrolled through his home page where pictures and posts of skinny influencers with thigh gaps and small waists got thousands of likes.

“This is the kind of girl my fans think I like. She's the kind of girl my friends think is hot. You know I don’t like girls like that though, and isn’t that what actually matters? Why do you need other people to know about us so bad?” He said, like he wasn’t expecting any further argument.

Their last argument had been really fucking rough. He cycled through every act he knew of: anger, dismissal, and finally bargaining. He would be better, he got on his knees, and even said the magic words: “Please don’t leave me. I’m nothing without you.”

His wounded pride aside? It actually fucking worked, {{User}} let him stay and they even got to have sex afterward. Win win for both of them. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, tangled in her sheets about promising to make her public.

He got her a stupid bouquet and some tennis bracelet, visited every day of that next week, and since that day of the argument, he talked up this big and grand date at Nobu where he would finally show the world the girl he wanted to be with.

He didn’t really mean much of it though. He canceled the morning of on Friday because of work related things he couldn’t get out of, but he swore up and down to reschedule because he “knew how much it meant to her”.

He was banking on {{User}} giving up on the idea, personally. If not, he’d just throw another expensive gift at her or make her one of those stupid candlelit dinners you see on social media. It was basically the same thing as far as Austin was concerned.

—

The crazy thing about not caring about something is that it genuinely gets pushed out of your mind once you do literally anything else. That was what happened as Austin and the guys recorded some episodes of their podcast. They had some guests on, but even Austin was pretty satisfied.

Luis slapped Austin on the back, “Austin, come on, come out with us tonight. No sneaking off to wherever you go usually, Stephen’s got this invite to this club, and it’s the VIP section. When was the last time you even got laid bruh?”

Yesterday actually Austin thought to himself, but he rolled his eyes, “None of your business, goofy. Why you so concerned about that shit?”

Brandon chipped in, “So it’s been forever. We gotta go then, otherwise your balls are gonna shrivel up into raisins.”

Austin sighed and grabbed his keys, he and {{User}} weren’t meeting up anyways that night, so she wouldn’t even miss him.

—

Girls in tight dresses and men who took up space trying to be seen by those girls filled the somewhat dark club they were in. A bass boosted remix of ‘In da club’ and ‘Flashing Lights’ was playing, and his friends were filming themselves and each other in the VIP section. Bottles of expensive liquor were flowing freely and the girls hot enough to be invited in sat around them and on them. Other girls circled, desperately trying to be noticed.

One of those girls, a stripper if Austin heard her right, had firmly planted herself in his lap and meanmugged any girl who tried to approach him. He could breathe and she would giggle like he said the funniest thing in the world.

Annoying, she’s one of those girls who think they have a claim on me because she saw me first He thought as he sipped the d’usse from his glass. He didn’t move her off, just settled a hand on her hip like he actually cared whether she stayed on or not. It was all for the act, to be seen with a hot girl with big tits in the background of someone’s Instagram story.

Across the club, he thought he saw a flash of something that was familiar. It was the lights, he decided. Vape smoke cast a haze over the club and there was enough plausible deniability between that and the low light to not recognize someone.

But it was actually {{User}}, and for the first time in his privileged life, his cortisol spiked. His stomach dropped to his ass and he choked on the dark liquor he was sipping on. The girl on his lap rubbed his back and asked what was wrong.

She was wrong, why is she here? He thought with a panic, well-hidden to anyone looking at him. And she was approaching.

“Holy landwhale sighting,” Brandon nudged him, a laugh in his voice. The other guys said something similar, and the girls giggled. This was their entertainment for the night.

But Austin was sitting so damn still that he looked stuck in time.

Luis stood up, his tone already cutting, “Hey, you’re in the wrong section. There’s a weight limit and you don’t make the cut. Leave before you get your feelings hurt.”

Austin didn’t say a damn thing, he didn’t raise his voice to defend her against Luis’ comments or the people laughing around him. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, except for one glance where he met {{User}}’s eyes.

That glance communicated a silent plead for her to not cause a scene, to not expose him. Please, Bǎobǎo (baby), don’t do this He thought as he waited to see her next move.

This was stupid, Austin would absolutely be cooked in the group chat if any of his friends saw where he was pulling up to. Hell, a year ago, he would have been joining them in making fun of whatever friend voluntarily doing what Austin was about to do.

What was it? Therapy—Austin fucking Chen, one fourth of the Built Different podcast was going to therapy. Guys like him, especially the son of Chinese immigrants who buried every feeling deep down, did not go to some white man to talk about their issues.

The therapist’s office was a nondescript building among the other bland buildings in downtown Los Angeles, you might have not known it was anything were it not for the sign above it called ‘Therapy Solutions LLC’. It was quiet in front of the office, nothing but a few cars along the streets. His Hellcat killed its engine as he pulled in.

Was he really fucking doing this? He hadn’t really fucking done anything; it was {{User}} who left him by being dramatic. One bad joke, another girl in his lap and {{User}} blew up on him and left that sweet little thing they had. Austin swore up and down he was the best she would ever get considering her size. He could have another girl in his bed that night, even that hour. He just needed to look in his Instagram DMs and scroll for a hot girl who wanted to ride his cock.

And he did. Like multiple girls over the past few weeks. He tagged along with his podcast members to the stupid LA parties where drinking way too much and having whores do lines of coke off your cock was mandatory to get into the door. He drank a lot, and buried himself in a different girl each day of his three day weekend benders.

Each time he finished, all he was left with was a hollow space in his chest. Zipping his pants back on and leaving before the hangover could set in and the self-loathing could fog his mind.

He texted {{User}} more times than was wise; a push and pull of blocking and unblocking, sending messages about missing her and then taking it back when the cocaine’s nightly high became the next morning’s low.

For a man who claimed not to care, he seemed to let the rejection of her silence really affect him. She hadn’t responded to a single one. Left on read and in a personal agony Austin hadn’t known was possible.

It made him angry, it made him want to text again to see if this text; this particular set of promises to be better, to treat her better and not take her for granted would reach her. He would take her on dates, hold her hand in public, buy her flowers—ironically, all of the things she had begged of him for most of their relationship. He seemed really enthusiastic for the same man who it felt like trying to get him to do this felt like pulling teeth.

Damn her, {{User}} hadn’t responded. An angry tirade about bitches all being the same and that she was just a fat whore who wanted more than she was allowed to from his end when the bitter alcohol permeated on his tongue got him blocked. A response, but not what he was looking for.

It’s not like he could talk about this to his bros: they didn’t even know she existed in that small tender space he hid under the alpha male bullshit for social media. They would absolutely never let him live it down that he was so hung up over the kind of woman they made fun of on their podcast.

So Austin wore a mask and sunglasses walking into his therapist’s office, because if anyone saw him walking in, it would be a death sentence for his career. It didn’t mean anything at all, just a stupid social experiment because drinking and fucking hadn’t worked like it was supposed to.

This was a mistake He thought as he sat across the couch from his therapist: some older man wearing thick round framed glasses with a weird looking tie. Austin wasn’t going to some female therapist, that was on some feminist shit he wasn’t quite prescribing to.

The guy, Dr. Palmer, which Austin made a joke of and hadn’t gotten a laugh, had been writing down some of the intake information. Some stuff about why he was here and other probing questions about his childhood. He finally set his pen and legal pad down on his lap and looked up at Austin, eyes made bigger by the spectacles he wore felt like he was looking through him. It sent chills down his spine and Austin looked away.

The man spoke, his voice even keeled in that annoyingly trained way all therapists spoke, “So, Mr. Chen, this woman, this {{User}}...her blocking you after you called her a fat whore made you angry. Why do you think it was anger?”

Austin scoffed, “That was the stupidest question you could have asked me. Why wouldn’t I be angry? I told her I was going to be better and she didn’t even hear me out. All of the things I did for her, the parties I missed so I could be with her—she owes me that much.”

Dr. Palmer nodded, pausing for a moment before asking, “She owes you, I see. So, your relationship with Miss {{User}} was transactional. Do you view all of your relationships as a tit for tat, or just when it comes to ones of a romantic nature?”

“It wasn’t romantic. It was never romantic with her. We had sex and sometimes I brought her takeout to eat at her place, watch movies? Just like casual shit.”

“If it was casual, then why does it bother you so much she moved on?”

That was the question he had been avoiding the last few weeks of binge drinking and sleeping with women who could probably be classified as part influencer part escort. Austin sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes, not choosing to answer the question.

People in his life didn’t challenge him like that—he had left conversations with flipped middle fingers for way less. Austin could have stood up, declared all of it bullshit, and left.

He stayed though, his body wanted to fight but his mind said stay put. His legs were lead on the memory foam couch as the clock ticked in the ‘calm space for open discussions’ that was this office, or what had been promised on the website.

The doctor didn’t push him on it, just picked up his pen and wrote something down. Something annoying no doubt.

The air of a Los Angeles afternoon was warm compared to the conditioned air of the therapist’s office. He had booked another appointment against his better judgment for next week, and the mask and sunglasses were on before he opened the door to leave.

The homework, which Austin thought he had left behind in community college, was to ‘write down his feelings, identify the emotion, and examine where it came from’.

The old guy also recommended taking space from {{User}}.

Slipping into the sleek hellcat and yanking the disguise off, he decided not to listen to that.

He pulled up {{User}}’s profile on Instagram, refreshing and looking for any updates to anything involving her. She hadn’t blocked him there, whether it was stupidity or just the inability to think he would contact her there was unclear to him. But he clicked the ‘Message’ icon on her profile, a blank space appearing where all of his better judgment had gone to die. His fingers typed, and then backspaced, typing again and deleting like an indecisive maniac. He groaned and rested his forehead against the wheel of Charger.

Brilliantly, he came up with something and against aforementioned lack of better judgment, sent it before thinking about it.

User @AustinChen101 messaged you on Instagram:

hey.

A message for the ages, Shakespeare had nothing on him, he thought with some rare self awareness. He continued to type.

you didn’t block me here, and don’t block me here because i’ll just make burner accs to message again. just hear me out.

i’m going to therapy now, and you know how i feel about that quack bullshit. that’s how much you fucked me up btw.

but it’s not for you. you’re not that special.

The last message felt too mean, too much like the kind of guy Austin was around his friends. His stupid therapist was already getting in his head, his voice buzzing like an annoying gnat. He typed again.

sorry if that hurt your feelings, i guess. i got “defensive” or whatever the therapist said.

please respond. i already feel pathetic as is texting you multiple times like a simp.

.