The Stalker And The Bad Boy

Prologue.

YOU walk down the road and your hair is slicked back, smooth, gel most definitely attached. You are Caucasian, and your face is clean shaven, and you look around 23 years old and your eyes are deep blue and who, who are you?

You walk with a leather jacket, and black motercycle gloves that make you look badass as fuck, and your hair is brown. You stuff your hands in your pockets and you look around with this badass "I Don't Give A Fuck" attitude and you spit to the floor because you're so badass and awesome.

Chill, Mark. Take it cool. Most bad boys aren't gay is what I tell myself, and it's true. I've seen these alphas before and they aren't the most homosexual people. But you, something about YOU. I'm confident about you. I'm walking downwards, and I have an Avitan in my pocket and I consider popping one because my heart is pounding out of my chest at the way your muscles move, but I don't want to pop an Avitan, I just want to look at you.

You whistle at a random girl walking down the road and, no, no no no, how did I read this so wrong? You're straight.

Are you?

I still follow you, because your wearing track suit pants and your ass is bouncing up and down. I'm behind you, and I realise how strangely suspect it may be that I'm slowing down whenever you slow down, so I decide to stop and tie my shoelaces even though they're already tied so I untie them and retie them then follow you some more. You go into a store and pick up an apple, examining it, and I'm able to look at your hands to your nails which are clipped and I imagine your hands in my mouth, rubbing my neck and I instinctively want to masturbate but I shouldn't because I'm not a fucking idiot.

As you make it to the cashier, I pull out my iPhone 6 and take a quick picture of you with your credit card, and luckily it snaps on the side with your picture, and I stand at the outside of the store, rubbing my cock to the name ADRIAN OWEN.