The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Importance Of Protections

You might be asking, "Ayden, why is there a huge life-size condom in front of you? And what do you use to style your luscious, fluffy hair? It looks like a wave covered in an oil spill, but with that all those mucked seagulls," and to both of those things I answer: fuck if I know. We are not meant to know the mysteries of the universe. Would sure like to know, though.

"Put it on," says Principal Dickwad, slowly stroking my back in the dank closet next to the even danker football field.

And when I say dank, I'm saying "420 blaze it" kind of dank. Seems like somebody has taken the little shack as a modest pot plantation, with an UV light and a humidifier that made the oversized condom moist and drippy. Did I mention the condom has a little Roman helmet? Because the condom has a little Roman helmet. Maybe Athenian, but most likely Roman.

"What? You're not going to buy me dinner first?" I ask with a smirk. "But seriously, what the fuck are you playing at? I thought we were going to detention."

Principal Dankhole walks towards the mondo swordsheat and strokes it lovingly with an equally smug smirk. "This is detention."

"No, this is, at best, a pretty fucked fetish," I state. "Detention has other people, and an underpaid teacher, and desks with boobs and swastikas carved into them. Besides, I'm mostly a bottom, so wearing a condom ain't my style."

I cannot say if he looks intrigued or horrified, but he quickly shakes his head, dismissing any notion of such things. Glad I didn't walk in a student/teacher smut book. There are too many already and each and every one doesn't seem to understand the nature of such unbalanced power relations. That's not a joke. Please don't write those stories anymore. It's borderland rape.

"Oh, you want to stay in a conditioned room for a while with your friends and have an alone time in an ever-revolving world that shuns peace and quiet in favor of a revolving door of shit?" he says, still with the smirk, now twitching, because he doesn't have bad boy mouth muscles. "Tough luck. You're not going to mooch off the sweat of the working man's brow. Your punishment must be equal to the crime. You destroyed a piece of art-"

"Can't you just print another one?" I ask.

"I mean, yeah, sure, but I'll have to drive to the nearest Staples and try and gauge the mood of the salesperson, then I'll have to explain why that beautiful lion man has huge balls, then I'll get judged, but, like, silently judged? And that's gonna make me self-conscious because it will remind me of my dad and how he always silently judged me, and that one time he called me a failure after that artwork I made of Obama and Sonic pregnant of each other's children became viral, and then I'll just wanna go home and eat pistachio ice cream," he says, all in one breath, as if it was nothing. "So, yes, but you're missing the point."

"Do you need help? Do you have anybody you can talk to?" I ask. "Is there a psychologist here? Maybe BetterHelp.com? A cat that likes to meow? An Alexa device?"

"I"m fine," he says, not fine. "The point is, your detention today will be to guard this here mascot suit. Those heathens at Hill Valley Mountain Woods High have the tradition of stealing something from our school every year on the first game of the season. Last year was my precious Fursuit, Monsieur Flufflybottom. The year before that? Our LaCroix machine. Before that?"

"Your will to live?" I say, half-joking. Or half-serious, depending if you're one of those assholes who like to see the glass half-full.

He grabs me by the shoulder, giving me a smile so melancholic that one would think he's a young Russian writer during the revolution whose commander ordered to shoot a bus full of kittens and rainbows. "You can't lose something you don't never had in the first place, Mr. Gomez."