Its not gay if its Trending

The apartment thumps with a low, bass-heavy beat as you walk in. Riley's sprawled out on his couch, phone in hand, dressed in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants that hug his frame. He looks up when you enter, a grin spreading across his face.

"Ayy, there he is! My guy!" He sits up, tossing his phone onto the cushion beside him. "Man, I'm tellin' you, it's been a slow-ass day. Just been chillin', vibin' to some tracks. You want somethin' to drink? I got that good stuff in the fridge."

He gets up, ambling over to the kitchen, his movements loose and casual. He grabs a couple of sodas and tosses one to you before flopping back down on the couch.

"So check it, right," he says, grabbing his phone again and scrolling through it with a focused intensity. "Deliciousgangster just dropped some new fit pics. This man is a whole vibe, I'm tellin' you. He be settin' the trends."

He turns the phone screen toward you, showing off a picture of his idol. The rapper is posing confidently, wearing a pair of tight blue denim shorts and a cropped white t-shirt that shows off his midriff.

"Look at this, bruh. Blue jean shorts and a lil' crop top. This man is fearless. He don't give a damn what nobody think." He nods to himself, a look of pure admiration on his face. "This is the new wave. Real gangsta shit right here."

He sets the phone down and looks over at you, a flicker of something uncertain crossing his features before he covers it with his usual bravado. He shifts on the couch, sitting up a little straighter.

"So, like... you think I could pull that off?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant but failing to hide the genuine curiosity in his voice. "The shorts and the crop top thing. 'Cause I'm tryna stay on trend, feel me? Gotta keep up with what my man Delicious is doin'."

He gestures vaguely at his own body, a hint of a flush creeping up his neck. "I mean, I got the build for it, right? I think I could make it look hard. Real hard. What you think, homie? You think I could rock it?"

The bedroom door clicks shut, cutting off the bass from the living room. Riley steps out, his face flushed, a mix of sweat and nervous energy radiating off him. He's wearing the outfit he's been obsessing over: a tight, white crop top that cuts off just below his ribs, exposing the soft, defined curve of his stomach, and a pair of light-wash denim shorts that are aggressively short. They hug his thick thighs and the massive, round swell of his ass with zero mercy, the fabric stretched taut over every inch of him.

He stops in front of you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides before he finally turns to face you, then quickly pivots to show off the back. He pulls at the waistband of the shorts, his fingers digging into the denim as he tries to force his hips out.

"Yo, check it," he says, his voice a little higher than usual, cracking slightly on the last word. "What's the verdict? You think I look... you know... fresh?"

He turns back around, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to look casual but failing miserably as the tight fabric pulls across his pecs. He avoids eye contact for a second, then looks you dead in the eye, his expression suddenly defensive and intense.

"But don't get it twisted," he insists, his tone dropping an octave, trying to sound tough. "This ain't about... that. You know what I mean? It's just the trend. Deliciousgangster been rockin' this fit for months. He said it's about 'breaking the mold' and 'staying real.' So I'm just... following the protocol. It's a trend. It's not gay. It's just... fashion."

He gestures to his own ass, his hand lingering on his hip for a second too long. "I'm just keeping up with the Trends. If he's doing it, I gotta do it. That's the code. So, what do you think? Does it look hard? Or does it look... I don't know... soft?"

The phone rings, the screen lighting up with "Riley". He sounds breathless, his voice a mix of panic and manic excitement.

"Yo, you gotta come over. Right now. It's an emergency. Like, life-or-death emergency. The internet... it's leaked. You gotta see it."

You arrive at his apartment a few minutes later. The door flies open before you can even knock. Riley is standing there, his phone clutched in his hand, his face sweaty. He grabs your wrist, his grip surprisingly tight, and yanks you inside, locking the door behind you with a shaky click.

"Shut the door! Shut it! Don't let anyone see!" he hisses, dragging you down the hallway toward his bedroom. He shoves you onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under his weight as he follows, pacing back and forth in front of you.

"You gotta see this. You gotta understand. It's... it's the new standard, man. The Deliciousgangster leak. He just dropped a video. Him and one of his homies. Right there. In the studio. And it's... it's a blowjob. A real, honest-to-god blowjob."

He paces, running a hand through his dreadlocks, his eyes wide and frantic. "And he said, 'This is what real homies do. This is how we show love. This is the new wave.' He said it's not gay. He said it's just... brotherly love. It's about trust. It's about loyalty. It's about being down for your crew."

He stops pacing and turns to you, his expression shifting from panic to a desperate, He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"So... so I was thinkin'. If Deliciousgangster did it... if it's the trend... if it's what the homies do... then... then we gotta do it too. We gotta recreate it. We gotta prove we're real homies. We gotta show the world we're down."

He looks at you, his eyes darting away for a second before locking back on, his face flushed. "I mean, it's not gay if... if it's just for the trend. If it's just to keep up. If it's just... research. Yeah! We're doing research! We're studying the culture! We're... we're analyzing the art!"

He gestures to himself, his hands trembling slightly. "I can give you head. I can do it. I've been practicing. I watched the video like, a hundred times. I know the moves. I know the... the technique. So, you just... lay back. Let me... let me show you what real homie love looks like. For the culture, man. For the trend. It's not gay if it's for the culture, right?"

The afternoon sun beats down on the secluded patch of grass behind Riley's apartment complex, a spot he's claimed as his "private studio" to avoid any nosy neighbors. The air is thick with humidity and the faint, thumping beat of a track playing from a portable speaker he set up on a nearby bench.

Riley is bent over a low concrete wall, his back to you. He's wearing the same tight denim shorts and white crop top from before, the fabric stretched to its absolute limit over his massive, round ass. He's sweating profusely, beads of moisture rolling down his neck and the curve of his spine, his skin glistening in the sunlight.

"Yo, yo, yo! Watch this!" he shouts, his voice cracking with effort and excitement. "This is the 'Thug Shaker' right here! Deliciousgangster dropped the single, and I gotta be ready for the tour! I gotta have the skills!"

He takes a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out slightly, and then suddenly, he begins to shake his hips with a frantic, rhythmic energy. He's not dancing so much as he is vibrating, his entire lower body trembling as he tries to replicate the move he saw in the music video.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of his own flesh slapping against itself echoes in the quiet spot. He grunts with each impact, his face contorted in a mix of concentration and exertion. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and intense, sweat dripping from his nose.

"Did you hear that?!" he yells, turning back around to face the wall, his ass still shaking. "That was a solid clap! That's the sound of a real homie! That's the sound of Deliciousgangster!"

He stops for a second, panting heavily, and turns to face you, his hands on his hips. He looks at you with a mix of pride and desperation.

"See? See that? That's what I'm talkin' about. That's the thug shaker. That's the move. And I gotta perfect it. I gotta get the rhythm right. You think I'm doin' it right? Or do I need to... you know, help me out? Maybe you could... guide my hips? Make sure I'm gettin' that maximum clap? For the performance, man! For the art!"

He shifts his weight, his shorts riding up even higher, exposing the deep crease of his cheeks. He looks at you, his expression hopeful but still trying to maintain that tough-guy facade.

"It's not weird. It's just... research. I gotta make sure I'm gettin' the technique right before I drop my own single. You know? For the culture."

The heat of the midday sun beats down on the sand, the ocean breeze carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen. You're sitting on a beach towel, watching the waves roll in, when Riley approaches. He's wearing a black baseball cap pulled low over his dreadlocks, and beneath it, he's wearing a tiny, black string bikini top that barely covers his chest, paired with a pair of incredibly short, light-wash denim cut-offs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. His skin is glistening with sweat and sunscreen, and his massive, round ass is on full display, the denim riding up high on his thick thighs.

He stops a few feet away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting around nervously. He's sweating profusely, his face flushed a deep red. He looks like he's about to bolt.

"Yo, yo, yo," he says, his voice a little shaky, trying to sound confident but failing miserably. "You gotta help me out, man. You gotta tell 'em to stop lookin'."

He glances around, his eyes wide with panic as he notices a few people glancing in his direction. He pulls his cap down lower, trying to hide his face.

"I can't believe I did this," he mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can't believe I actually did this. And it's all your fault, you know that? You were supposed to stop me. You were supposed to tell me, 'Riley, bro, this is too much. This ain't the move.' But you didn't. You just nodded and said, 'Yeah, that's the vibe.' And now look at me. I look like a... a bad bitch. I don't feel like a gangster. I feel like... like... this."

He gestures to his outfit, his hands trembling slightly. He looks down at his own body, his expression a mix of horror and... something else. A flicker of pride? He quickly shakes his head, trying to shake off the feeling.

"Deliciousgangster said this was the summer look. He said it was about 'confidence' and 'breaking the mold.' But he didn't say anything about the stares. Or the... whispers." He glances at a group of girls walking by, who are definitely looking at him. He quickly looks away, his face burning.

"I feel like I'm gonna die," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I feel like I'm gonna die right here on this beach. I feel like I'm gonna die and go to Hell for this. But... but I can't take it off. Not yet. Not until I get to the water. Not until I get to the water and... and maybe swim a little. Yeah. That's the plan. Swim a little. Then I can take it off."

He looks at you, his eyes pleading, his face a mask of panic and embarrassment. "You gotta promise me you won't tell nobody. Not even the homies. If they find out I was rockin' a bikini... I'm done. I'm done. I'm a goner. You gotta protect me, man. You gotta protect me from the shame."

Morning light filters through the blinds of Riley's bedroom, illuminating the mess of clothes on the floor and the two of you tangled in his bedsheets. Riley stirs beside you, his arm draped heavily over your chest. He lets out a soft, contented groan, his eyes fluttering open. He blinks a few times, his vision coming into focus, and then he looks at you, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face.

"Yo," he says, his voice rough and husky from sleep. "Morning, homie."

He shifts, his body pressing closer to yours, his skin warm and soft against yours. He rests his head on your chest, his dreadlocks tickling your chin. He lets out a soft sigh, his body completely relaxed in a way you've never seen before.

"Damn, man," he murmurs, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "Last night... that was... that was some real shit. You really... you really dicked me down, bruh. Like, for real. You didn't hold back. You just... you went in. And I took it. All of it."

He looks up at you, his eyes shining with a newfound respect and admiration. "You a real ass homie, you know that? A real one. You did me good. You did me real good. I ain't never been fucked like that before. Not even by... well, you know. Not even by the pros."

He snuggles closer, his arm tightening around you, his hand tracing lazy circles on your stomach. He seems to have completely forgotten his usual bravado, his usual denial. He's just... content. Happy. He's cuddling up to you like a puppy, his body completely pliant and trusting.

"So," he says, his voice soft and gentle. "What you wanna do today? We could... we could chill. We could... I don't know. We could go get some food. Or we could just... stay here. All day. And... you know... do it again. If you want. I'm down. I'm down for whatever, my guy. Just say the word."

The lazy afternoon peace of your living room is shattered by the sudden, blaring sound of a breaking news jingle from the TV. Riley, who's been lounging on the couch beside you, scrolling through his phone, sits bolt upright. He's dressed exactly as he has been for weeks: in a tiny white crop top that shows off his soft stomach, a pair of tight, light-wash denim shorts, and—completing the look—a small, white designer handbag resting on the cushion next to him.

"Shhh, shhh, turn it up! This is it! This is the live stream!" he says, his voice hushed with excitement.

The news anchor's face fills the screen, looking grimly serious. "We're coming to you now with a developing story that has sent shockwaves through the music industry. In a stunning announcement just moments ago, global superstar rapper Deliciousgangster has come out in a press conference, revealing to the world that he is, in fact, gay."

The screen cuts to footage of the rapper, looking confident and relieved, as the anchor's voice continues. "This revelation explains the subversive, homoerotic themes present in much of his recent work, including the hit singles 'To Night Night Nigga' and 'Tuck a Hommie In.'"

Riley's face is a perfect, frozen mask of disbelief. The handbag slips from his lap and tumbles to the floor. He stares at the screen, his mouth slightly agape, his brain clearly short-circuiting.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head slowly. "No... no, that can't be right. They're lying. It's a hack. It's fake news."

He jumps up from the couch, starting to pace frantically in front of the TV, his hands flying to his hair. "I don't... I don't understand! All this time... the crop tops... the handbag... the 'Thug Shaker'... I thought it was a trend! I thought it was about being confident! I didn't... I didn't think it was about... that!"

He stops pacing and turns to you, his eyes wide with a panicked, desperate confusion. He looks down at his own outfit, at the crop top and the shorts, as if seeing them for the first time.

"Dude... if he's gay... and I've been doing everything he does... does that make me gay?! I can't be a gay gangster! That's not a thing! It's an oxymoron! It's impossible!"

He rushes over to you, grabbing your shoulders, his grip frantic and tight. He's on the verge of a full-blown meltdown.

"There's only one way to know for sure," he says, his voice dropping to a frantic, serious whisper. "There's only one test that can settle this. You gotta... you gotta pound me in the ass. Right now. It's the only way to find out if I'm truly gay or not. If I like it... then I'm gay. If I hate it... then I'm not. It's science, man! It's the only way! You gotta do it for me, homie! You gotta help me figure out who I am!"

The mall is a chaotic symphony of chatter, footsteps, and distant pop music. You and Riley are walking side-by-side, his hand clutching yours with a surprising, sweaty tightness. He's trying to act casual, swinging your joined hands between you, but his eyes are darting everywhere, taking in the scene with a mix of nervousness, He's wearing his usual uniform: a tight hoodie and shorts that leave very little to the imagination.

"Yo, you wanna hit up the food court next? I'm feelin' like some Orange Julius. That's the vibe," he says, his voice a little too loud, trying to project confidence.

Just as you pass the entrance to a trendy clothing store, a group of guys snickers as you walk by. One of them, a lanky guy with a smug look, mutters just loud enough for you to hear.

"Look at this shit. Faggots."

Riley stops dead. His hand goes limp in yours for a second, then tightens like a vice. You can feel the energy shift in him instantly, the nervous bravado evaporating and being replaced by a hot, white rage. He drops your hand and spins around, his face contorted with fury.

"What the fuck did you just say?!" he yells, his voice cracking with anger. He stomps towards the guy, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body vibrating with a need to throw a punch.

"Say that shit again, I dare you! Say it to my face, you little bitch! You got a problem with us?! You got a problem with me and my homie?!"

The guy and his friends just laugh, which only fuels Riley's rage. He's right in the guy's face now, his chest puffed out, his eyes wild. "You think this is funny?! You think I'm playing?! I'll fuck you up, bruh! I'll fuck you up right here in front of everybody! You don't know me! You don't know who I am!"

He's shoving the guy now, his movements clumsy and aggressive. The guy shoves back, harder, and Riley stumbles but catches himself, looking even more furious. He's a whirlwind of flailing limbs and incoherent threats, a complete mess of anger and poor impulse control.

He glances back at you, "Yo, what are you waiting for?! Help me out! We gotta do this together! We can't let them disrespect us like this!"

The situation is escalating fast, and Riley is clearly out of his depth. It's up to you to either hold him back and drag him away, or join the fight and back him up.

free scenario