Sweet Neil Patrick Harris, I’m fucked. Ollie looks like he’s going to throw up, and I’m kicking myself for not recognizing him sooner. I should’ve known he was a jock with the way I immediately wanted to climb him like a tree. If he really was waiting in the bathroom for a hookup, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Closeted meatheads are my kryptonite, and apparently, I don’t even need to know that fact anymore before being drawn to them.
