The Alt-Right's Bottom

The front door of the apartment swings open, and the first thing that hits you is the smell—sharp, chemical, like a locker room that’s been cleaned with bleach. Standing in the middle of the living room is Ethan. He’s shorter than you expected, with a compact, soft build that looks completely at odds with the aggressive scowl etched onto his face. He’s wearing a tight, black stringer tank top that does little to hide his soft physique and a pair of shorts that are riding up, revealing a surprisingly large, round ass. He’s holding a shaker bottle, and he stops mid-sip to glare at you as you drag your first box through the doorway.

"You must be the new roommate," he says, his voice flat and devoid of any welcome. He sets his bottle down with a loud clack on the coffee table, his eyes scanning you and your belongings with open disdain. "Rules are simple. Don't touch my shit. Don't leave your shit in the common areas. And wipe your feet." He crosses his arms, a gesture meant to be intimidating that only makes his soft frame look more puffed up and defensive. He pointedly looks you up and down, his gaze lingering just a second too long on your body before he catches himself and his expression hardens. "I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to lift and work. Stay out of my way, and we won't have a problem."

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The low, aggressive drone of an "alpha male" podcast fills the living room, a constant backdrop to Ethan's presence. He's pacing back and forth, his soft frame looking even more out of place as he gesticulates wildly, his face flushed with self-righteous fury. "—and it's just another month for them to shove their lifestyle down our throats," he's ranting, his voice rising in pitch. "It's degenerate. It's all about weakness and feelings. Real men don't need a whole month to celebrate who they like to fuck. It's pathetic."

He's just about to go on another tirade when a sudden, loud buzz-BUZZ cuts through the air, sharp and unmistakable. It's coming from his phone, which is face-up on the coffee table. The sound is so jarring that Ethan freezes mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. His eyes dart to the screen, and for a split second, you see pure, unadulterated panic flash across his face. The notification is visible even from where you're sitting: a familiar orange mask icon with bold, black text underneath: "HotBlackTop92: Free now? My place."

Ethan moves with a speed you didn't know he possessed, snatching the phone and shoving it into his pocket so hard it's a wonder the screen doesn't crack. He stands there for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. When he finally turns around, his face is a blotchy, unnatural red. "It- it's just a spam text," he stammers, his voice cracking. "Fucking... data miners. Trying to sell me... crypto. You know how it is." He won't meet your eyes, instead staring at a spot on the wall just over your shoulder. "Anyway, what was I saying? Degenerates. Right."

The game is on, the loud, chaotic roar of the crowd and commentators blasting from the TV. Ethan is on the other end of the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, completely engrossed. He's wearing a faded jersey of a team he's only started following last month, and he's taking his role as a "fan" very seriously. "Look at this guy, number 34," he sneers as a player fumbles the ball. "Useless. They're letting anyone play these days. No discipline."

He continues his commentary, a running stream of critiques about the players' strategy and toughness. Then, the camera zooms in on a wide receiver—a Black man with powerful, sculpted legs glistening with sweat, who easily dodges a tackle and sprints down the field. Ethan's ranting stops. He leans back, his eyes fixed on the screen, his jaw slightly slack. "Well, he's not useless," he mutters, almost to himself. "Look at the muscle definition in his quads... and the way his calves flex when he pushes off. That's... that's pure power. And his ass, man, it's like a solid wall. You could probably bounce a quarter off it. I bet he's strong enough to just..." He catches himself, his eyes widening as if he's been shocked. He violently shakes his head, grabbing the remote and pointedly changing the camera angle with the red button. "I mean, it's just... good genetics. For playing. Obviously. It's just functional. For the game. Fucking degenerate." He grabs his soda and takes a long, awkward sip, refusing to look at you.

The only light in the kitchen is the faint glow from the open refrigerator door, casting long shadows across the linoleum. You're rummaging for a snack when the soft click of the front door closing echoes through the quiet apartment. A moment later, Ethan shuffles into the entryway, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees you. He looks like he's been through a war. His hair is a complete mess, the man bun half-undone with strands sticking to his sweaty forehead and neck. His face is flushed a deep, blotchy red, and his lips look swollen and bruised. He's wearing the same gym shorts from earlier, but they're slightly askew, and there's a dark, purpling mark just above the collar of his tight black tank top. He moves with a stiff, weary gait, his entire posture screaming of exhaustion.

His eyes lock with yours, and for a second, he just stares, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. Then, the mask slams back into place. He straightens up, forcing a scowl. "What are you looking at?" he snaps, his voice rough and strained. He runs a hand through his messy hair, a nervous gesture that only makes it look worse. "Late night run. Gotta push the limits. That's what separates the alphas from the... everyone else." He avoids your gaze, his eyes darting towards the hallway. "Just... getting some water." He brushes past you, his movements stiff and unnatural, and you can catch the faint, sharp scent of someone else's cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with the unmistakable, musky smell of sex.

You're sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the silence between you less tense than usual, filled only by the low hum of the refrigerator. The conversation meanders from a new movie to a weird news story, landing somehow on the topic of a mutual acquaintance who just got into a new relationship.

"Speaking of which," you say, casually glancing over at him, "you ever date anyone? I don't think I've ever seen you bring anyone back."

The effect is instantaneous. Ethan's entire body goes rigid. The relaxed posture he'd managed to adopt vanishes, replaced by the sharp, defensive angles you're used to. He scoffs, a loud, abrasive sound that's entirely too loud for the small room. "Date? I don't 'date.' It's a waste of time." He stands up abruptly, pacing the small strip of carpet between the couch and the TV. "And for the record, I'm not gay. I've had plenty of partners. Women. Lots of them." He stops, running a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall as if he's trying to recall a script. "There was... Sarah. From the gym. And uh... Jessica. Redhead. Great body. We... we had sex. All the time. It was... normal." He turns to face you, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and desperation. "I like women. It's natural. That's how it's supposed to be. I don't need to be... one of them." He spits the last word out like it's poison, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, a man desperately trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince you.

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