Work Text:
I’m standing at the front desk of this rundown hotel near South Park Community College, the kind of place that smells like stale cigarettes and broken dreams. It’s my go-to spot for a quick nap between classes when I don’t feel like driving back to my place. The clerk’s taking forever to process my checkout, and I’m just leaning against the counter, half-dead from a morning of physics lectures, when I notice this guy next to me, rocking a chullo hat with those little ear flaps, looking all cute and shit. He’s wearing a jacket with the physics team logo—nerdy, but it works on him. He’s talking to the receptionist, asking her to check for a wallet he might’ve left behind. His voice is calm, kinda low, like he’s not sweating it too much
He catches me staring and flashes a quick smile, one of those half-assed ones that’s more polite than anything. I don’t know why, but I wink back like some dumbass trying to be smooth. My brain’s screaming, What the fuck, Stan? but I roll with it. “Hey,” I say, leaning a little closer, “I go to South Park CC too. I crash here sometimes for a nap. Place is a dump, but it’s cheap. You come here a lot?”
He tilts his head, and I swear to God, he flips his hair—or at least, what’s poking out from under that hat. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I’m instantly thinking about that stupid “How to Stop Being a Loser and Get Laid” seminar I dropped fifty bucks on last semester. The instructor—some sleazy dude named Gary who smelled like Axe body spray—went on about “signals.” Hair-flipping was, like, number three on his list of “green lights.” I’m not saying I bought into it, but… maybe I did a little.
“Sometimes,” he says, his voice low, almost bored, but that smile’s still there, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Craig, by the way.”
“Stan,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m about to choke on my own spit. “So, uh, you on the physics team or something?” I nod at his jacket, stating the obvious like a goddamn genius.
He snorts, not mean, just… amused. “Yeah, something like that. You?”
“Nah, I’m more of a ‘barely passing physics’ kinda guy.” I grin, and he actually laughs—a short, dry sound, but it’s something. The clerk’s still rummaging around for his wallet, so I figure, fuck it, I’ve got nothing to lose. “Hey, if you’re ever around here again, maybe we could, uh, hang out. You know, nap buddies or whatever.”
Nap buddies? Jesus Christ, Stan, just jump off a bridge.
Craig raises an eyebrow, but he’s still smiling, and I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining the way his eyes flick over me. “Nap buddies, huh? Sure, Stan. Could be fun.”
The clerk finally comes back, holding up a wallet like it’s the Holy Grail. “Found it,” she says, sounding like she’d rather be anywhere else. Craig takes it, checks inside, and nods. Before he heads out, he pulls out his phone, and I’m standing there like a deer in headlights as he says, “Gimme your number. In case I need a… nap buddy.”
I fumble through giving him my digits, and he just smirks, tucking his phone back in his pocket. “See ya, Stan,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell just happened.
Over the next couple of weeks, we’re texting non-stop. Craig’s got this deadpan sense of humor, like he’s always one step away from calling everyone around him an idiot, but it’s kinda hot. He sends me dumb memes about quantum mechanics that I don’t even pretend to understand, and I send him pictures of my dog because, well, I’m basic like that. We’re vibing, you know? Like, really vibing. I’m starting to think maybe this is it, maybe I’m not gonna be the guy who dies alone with a Netflix subscription and a fridge full of beer.
So, one Friday, I’m like, screw it, let’s take this to the next level. I text him, Wanna hit the hotel this weekend? No pressure, just chill. He replies with a thumbs-up emoji and “Bet.” I’m sweating bullets, but I play it cool, like I’m not internally screaming about the fact that I might actually get laid for the first time in… well, ever.
I pick him up in my beat-up Honda, and he’s waiting outside his dorm, still rocking that chullo hat like it’s glued to his head. He slides into the passenger seat, smelling faintly of coffee and some kinda spicy cologne that’s doing things to me. “You sure about this?” he asks, but he’s smirking, and I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about the hotel’s shitty continental breakfast.
“Dude, I was born sure,” I say, which is a lie, but it sounds good, and he laughs. We get to the hotel, check in, and it’s like… the air’s different. Heavy. I’m nervous as hell, but Craig’s just leaning against the wall, watching me with those half-lidded eyes, and I’m thinking, This is it, Stan. Don’t fuck this up.
We’re in the room, and it’s awkward for, like, two seconds before he grabs my shirt and pulls me in. It’s messy, desperate, and holy shit, it’s everything I didn’t know I needed. Clothes hit the floor, and I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my depth, but Craig’s guiding me through it, all soft whispers and that damn smirk. He’s… well, let’s just say he’s not the one calling the shots in bed, and I’m feeling like a fucking king. My first time, his first time—or so I think—and it’s like I’ve unlocked some secret level of manhood. I’m already mentally planning our next date, maybe even introducing him to my friends, when we’re lying there after, catching our breath.
We’re getting dressed, and I’m grinning like an idiot, thinking I’m about to have a boyfriend, when Craig sits on the edge of the bed, lacing up his shoes. He looks up at me, all casual, and says, “So, that’s five hundred bucks.”
I freeze, my hoodie halfway over my head. “Uh… what?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Five hundred. Cash or Venmo, doesn’t matter.”
I’m waiting for the punchline, but he’s just staring at me, and my stomach drops like I just fell off a cliff. “You’re… you’re serious? You’re, like, a Hooker?”
Craig shrugs, tugging his hat back on. “Escort, technically. But yeah. You thought this was… what, a date?” He sounds almost amused, but there’s this edge to it, like he’s daring me to make a scene.
I’m standing there, feeling like the world’s biggest dumbass, my entire life savings flashing before my eyes. “I… I don’t have five hundred bucks, dude! I thought we were—fuck, I don’t know, vibing!”
He sighs, like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Look, Stan, you’re cute, and it was fun, but this is my side hustle. You want another round sometime, hit me up. Maybe I’ll give you a discount.” He winks, and I’m torn between wanting to punch him and wanting to cry.
I scrape together what I have—about two hundred in cash and some Venmo transfers that leave my account screaming—and he takes it, gives me a pat on the shoulder, and walks out. I’m left sitting on the bed, staring at the peeling wallpaper, wondering how the hell I’m gonna explain this to Kyle when he asks why I’m eating ramen for the next month.
Fuck my life.