LEGIT MASTURBATION MATERIAL

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BOWLING WITH KAOLIN HAS ALWAYS been awesome. A childhood tradition and for flexing their arms to ball baskets like they were destined to do. They've been peas in a pod since they can remember in spite of their stark differences.

          "In your face, you blonde blob!"

          In the background is a pack of cheerleaders bumping into themselves, captivated by Kaolin's toned arms swinging the inky ball back and forth, hanging around the large armholes of his oversized singlet. It has furry tiger stripes embroidered into it, perfectly complementing his bronze skin. The latter glitters with crystal beads of sweat trickling down it like shiny motorsports down a desert slope. And to top it all off, Kaolin, unconscious of his surroundings, strikes a model pose of sliding his fingers into the thick bush of dirty blonde curls that sat atop his head.

He is bothering the girls, some onlookers and of course, Leroi, who ad infinitum sneaks peeks from his magazine.

Hushed whispers erupts from the pack. They are chattering away while examining the baseball racks. Leroi notices and even his dim wits figures out immediately that it's all pretence. They actually are watching his best friend play.

Suddenly, one of the girls -- the prettiest -- walks up to the jocks with confidence radiating from her like a solar flare, and this surges a possessive reflex in Leroi. It is strange, strong, yet he suppresses it. She click-clacks past Leroi who is sunk into the Paper magazine, acknowledging his presence with a trifling nod and heads for the kill.

Leroi is capable of depriving her neck of her head if his gaze on the conversing duo lingers any longer. Excluding her blindingly bright figure, Leroi resents girls. Well, some girls.

After twenty trillion years, furious stiletto heels stabbing the tiles awoken him from his mild slumber. He is satisfied with the face of her friends as they jest their Wonder Woman. At least she's got the courage. It is odd though, seeing Kaolin reject a girl.

"My little gay chick," Leroi muses, flipping an obscene page of Kim Kardashian clad in raw pasties. His peripheral vision catches Kaolin sitting in his armrest and his nostrils are tickled by a whiff of sweat. Leroi finds himself preferring it to his home's lavender.

Kaolin rolls his eyes and he picks up a towel on Leroi's laps. "I'm still into girls, you know? Her eyes are just too freakishly blue."

"Reverse racism in its finest."

"Everyone that shit doesn't exist."

One painful thing about Kaolin, other than his sour sarcasm, is that he's pickier than Squidward in an art exhibition. Nothing seems to content him, not even the oxygen he breathes.

Kaolin's face morphs questioningly. "Fuck, are you getting fat?"

"Oh my gosh, I am? No," Leroi drones and groans, his hands flying to his face.

"Yes you are."

"Stop it please."

"What are you gonna do? Egg me with your purse?" Kaolin doubles over in hysterics.

"Don't," Leroi hisses in mock contempt.

The hazel-eyed boy wipes a tear from his eyelids. "Just give me water, my slim legend."

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